


glory and gore (go hand in hand)

by sarcastic_fina



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Darcy Lewis, F/M, See trigger warning inside, Villains to Heroes, assassin!darcy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(au) In the high-stakes game of sniping people, Darcy Lewis is the best assassin for the job. And she's just been given her biggest mark yet: The Winter Soldier. Usually, this wouldn't be a problem; she'd happily add him to her list of accomplishments. Only, then she goes and does something stupid; she falls in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Polyvore** : [darcy's outfit](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126474312)
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings** : Darcy's history is a dark one, so I'm warning you now that there is sexual abuse and, in the second chapter, rape of a minor. It doesn't go into extremely explicit detail of the rape itself, mostly the time leading up to it, but I don't want anybody to be triggered, so please be aware that those themes are present. There is also extremely graphic violence (she's an assassin, so duh); minor character death (nobody important); explicit **consensual** sex between Darcy and Bucky; and strong language. So please take all of that into consideration before reading.
> 
> Please take heed of the trigger warnings!

**I**.

Darcy should probably be flattered. And, sure, in a way, she was. She'd heard of him. Who hadn't? All right, there were a lot who hadn't heard of him. It was kind of a tick in the win column if an assassin stayed _un_ heard of. Helped with that whole discretion thing. But, in this case, it was a little different. The Winter Soldier was infamous. He was what they called the _perfect_ assassin. A ghost. Coming and going, leaving no trail, and over so much time that he had reached a whole new status of legendary. If she were the type of person who had idols, he would be hers for how proficient he was. But Darcy didn't dabble in idolizing others when she was pretty proud of her own capabilities.

Darcy had been in circulation for 8 years now and she'd earned herself a praise-worthy reputation. Some people dreamed about corner offices and raises and building a family, but Darcy, she was content with who she was and what she did. There was no shame to be found. She was a highly paid, extremely talented, assassin. And her new target was none other than Bucky Barnes, former HYDRA asset, the Winter Soldier.

It was, to say the least, an honor to have a folder handed to her with such an esteemed target. She'd taken out her fair share of big names, but this was, by far, the biggest. Not in a global, political way, but in a 'this man is a myth' kind of way. It was on par with, or even a step higher than, taking out Captain America himself. So ,sure, she was flattered. Daunted, too. But nobody could ever say that Darcy Lewis didn't take on any challenge offered to her.

* * *

_Darcy is five the first time she holds a gun; her fingers are too small and she has no idea what it means, what she's holding, or what kind of damage it can do. But her proud papa, smart enough to take out the magazine, hands it to her and tells her, "This is your legacy, right here. Your daddy grew up on guns, your grandpa too, you're gonna be a natural, sweetheart."_

_He's not wrong._

_She's nine when she holds a gun and it feels_ right _; the grip fits beneath her fingers so perfectly that she feels a tug at her heart. It's like coming home, meeting a new best friend, finding that puzzle piece she didn't know was missing until just that very moment. It's a simple handgun; one of her dad's. He has more than enough of them, being retired military. For as long as she can remember, he's been eager to show her how to shoot soda bottles off the fence posts in the backyard. Soda bottles become targets become hunting in the summers, mostly deer. He praises her for being such a good shot, for picking it up so easily, for becoming so familiar with guns that they become an extension of herself._

_He never wonders what she'll do with that tool; she never wonders what it can become._

_Darcy is her father's daughter. She grows up underfoot, always reaching for his hand, doing everything she can to impress him. Her day begins and ends with his laughter and love. He treats her like a princess and never falters in telling her she is the apple of his eye. Even when she makes mistakes, when she screws up in school, when she gets in fights with the neighbor boys, when she just can't get the hang of riding a bike without training wheels, he is right there by her side, telling her she is amazing and smart and she will always make him proud._

_Her father dies when she's twelve years old; he leaves her his weapon's collection. She takes a special interest in the hunting knives she's only ever seen in his worn, callused hands or tucked into a loop on his belt when he took her on hunting trips. He never lets her touch those, but when he's gone, her fingers wander to them, often._

* * *

Her first step was to study him. From afar, of course. If she got too close, he would make her in a heartbeat. Darcy was proud to be taking him on, but not so stupid that she thought he wouldn't recognize a fellow assassin. Whether he'd retired from the biz, or not, and she was fairly sure he had. So far as she could tell, he was holing up with Captain Rogers, previously at Stark Tower as they worked on deprogramming him and now in an apartment in Brooklyn. She would put money on that being the reason a hit was called on him now. Stark Tower would've made it a hundred times more difficult to get at him, but out in the open like this, he might as well be a sitting duck. And, now that he was deprogrammed, it made him a less prepared duck, or so the people hiring her must have thought.

If she were being honest, she would admit that the fact that HYDRA had programmed him to be their lapdog had taken some shine off his previously unmatched skills. A puppet wasn't nearly as admirable as a fully functioning person, aware of what they were doing and actively pursuing a kill because it was their job, what they were good at, and nothing would stop them. And, if she wanted to analyze it even more, she could admit that it bothered her. Just a ripple under her skin that told her it was wrong. She wasn't the best person to ask about right or wrong, she was an assassin for Chrissakes, but that was her _choice_ , and that played a big part, didn't it?

Darcy had a moral code, skewed as it might be. She liked to know who it was she would be killing. Others in her field took the opposite route; better not to know so they weren't haunted by ghosts. But Darcy liked to know who they were, from the ground up. That way, she could actively decide whether they deserved it or not. And, for the most part, she had been lucky. Most of the people she was hired to kill, by _her_ estimation, had deserved a bullet between the eyes, not that the person hiring her didn't too, but she wasn't getting paid to take them out… _Yet_. It was important to remember that an assassin was only loyal as long as the money was coming in. She didn't pick sides; she picked money. Which was why, on the few occasions when she knew a mark didn't deserve it, she usually decided to walk away, citing business differences to anybody who asked questions. And maybe that didn't accomplish much; they would still die, wouldn't they? But it was off her conscience. And nobody ever said she wasn't selfish.

In the case of James "Bucky" Barnes, he had a target on his back for two reasons. He knew too much and he was too capable. She supposed that came with an addendum of 'and he probably held a vicious grudge.' Darcy couldn't blame him for that one. If somebody took her freewill away and turned her into something she wasn't, using her at their discretion, pointing her where they wanted, she'd eat her own bullet. It just wasn't in her. She was too stubborn, too independent, to ever bend to someone else's will. As soon as she understood what happened, she would be a loose cannon.

Which, she supposed, was what happened with Barnes. She'd seen the fallout, seen the footage on the SHIELD/HYDRA take-down. And she'd seen the aftermath, the folder of pictures that followed Barnes through his journey of self-discovery before he found himself outside of Rogers' door, asking for help, looking like a sad hobo. It was… eye-opening, to say the least. To see someone so big, so larger than life, reduced to a confused, scared little boy. And that was what he was, even if he was her age, older if she considered the year he was born and not just the time he spent outside of the fridge. He was a blank slate with nothing but hurt and confusion clouding everything he did.

It took more than just the shine off the idea that she was given such a high profile target. It took so much out of it that she considered walking away. Not because she didn't think she could take him, not because she feared the wrath of the man she'd admired for his fortitude, but because he didn't deserve it. He was finally free of the leash and they wanted to send him to the pound to be put to sleep for disobeying. Call her an animal lover, but she wasn't too keen on the idea.

And that, well, that presented a problem.

* * *

_Her mother spirals when her husband dies. She sinks into a depression and hides in her bedroom for, what feels like, forever. She nearly loses her job at the hospital when she calls in sick too many times, spending her days and nights curled up in her bed, asleep or staring at walls. It only makes her depression worse. She starts drinking to try and relieve the pain, but her late-night cryfests and trips down the yellow brick road of 'better times' only make it difficult for Darcy to keep herself together._

_Darcy learns quickly that her mother isn't just going to snap out of it. She wakes up too many mornings to her mother passed out in the living room, vomit down the front of her nightgown, and the shine of childhood dulls into a responsibility too heavy for her shoulders._

_She loves her mom. She's willing to do anything to help her. She comforts herself with memories of who her mother used to be, who she hopes she'll be again. But comfort fades and resentment grows. She spends less time at home and hopes her mom will notice, even yell at her, just care, even a little bit, but she never does. In fact, she stops looking at her directly, and Darcy knows it's because she looks so much like her father and the resemblance only grows._

_She wants to shake her mother, demand that she look at her, pay attention to her, take care of her,_ love _her, but she doesn't, and she watches the woman her mom used to be fade into oblivion, replaced with an empty shell._

_Maybe it's addiction, maybe it's grief, all Darcy knows for sure is the sting of abandonment won't go away any time soon._

* * *

Darcy was no newb to surveillance. She had enough gadgets and tech on her that she could spy on anybody if the interest ever arose. Setting up shop across from the low-key apartment building Rogers and Barnes were living in, she rented out a two-bedroom suite under a pseudonym and set up shop. She had recording devices taking up half of the living room to record and play everything for her to hear, able to cut down on most of the outside noise and just listen in directly to what was happening at Casa Rogers. Surveillance of Barnes was easier than a lot of her other marks; he wasn't the most social of butterflies, instead keeping to one of two places; Rogers' apartment or Goldie's gym. Occasionally, he wandered the neighborhood, but, more than once, she'd seen him get spooked, whether by memories or shadows, she wasn't sure, but it sent him scurrying back home pretty quick.

He wasn't much of a talker; it took him a bit to come out of his shell, but Rogers was persistent and it seemed to work, drawing Barnes out more and more, bringing out a side of him that was clearly more Bucky than Winter Soldier. Darcy had gone far and beyond to learn more about him pre-HYDRA, pulling up old history books to see what they had to say about Sargent Barnes prior to his alleged death. She didn't have the time to check out the museum in DC, but she did a virtual tour thanks to the website and felt a little more brushed up on just who it was she was supposed to be sniping.

He avoided windows. She noticed that right off. He never stood too close to them, preferring to avoid any open places, and often looked around, searching for anybody who might be tailing him. There were a few times when she knew he'd felt her watching, his shoulders hunched his steps slowed and, she imagined, tiiny hairs raised on the back of his neck. But he was good about not giving himself away, and often managed to evade her, disappearing into crowds or sneaking off down back alleys, until she was turned around. He must have remembered the neighborhood better than she expected, because he was getting good at escaping her watchful eye.

Good, but not infallible. He would be hard to kill, but not impossible. In fact, if she really wanted to, she could have taken him out a handful of times already. But she hadn't. Maybe it was the nature of the kill. Sniping him felt… _wrong_ somehow. Beneath him and his experience. But hand to hand combat would be harder. Sure, he looked weaker than ever, jumpy and uncertain, but he was still lethal. There was a reason that HYDRA kept him on. He was a dog, sure, but he was a well-trained dog, and it wasn't all from their brainwashing. Part of her, a very eager part, wanted to test that training. She wanted to prove to herself that he was more than just a tool, but a soldier. She wanted to see him fight, to move, to engage her in the dance her blood sang for.

Darcy loved a good fight. She loved to see an opponent come at her, no holds barred, only to have them see just how capable she really was. Too many had underestimated her in her life; nobody who stood toe to toe with her ever would again. If they lived to talk about it, that was. And, they rarely did. But maybe he would be different; maybe he would be the fight that took her off balance, that matched her speed, her agility, her relentlessness.

There was something in him, something dark and fierce, that lingered in his gait and his expression, especially when he was alone. When he prowled the streets, wary and suspicious. At home, it was different, he didn't view Rogers as a threat. He let down his guard. And seeing both halves of him, it was an unusual experience for her. The image she had of him, of a panther stalking the shadows, didn't quite fit with the man that sat grumpily in his apartment, making excuses not to join Rogers whenever he went out. And then there were the nightmares, the ones that left him screaming, that jarred her in her seat, leaning forward, wondering if he was under attack, only to realize he was fighting off Rogers before he realized where he was, _who_ he was.

A voice in her head that sounded a lot like her mentor told her it was a weakness; that _he_ was weak, and she was doing him a _favor_ putting him out of his misery. But Darcy didn't think it was weakness; a vulnerability, sure, but not weak. He was fractured, he'd been traumatized, and it would take a while to work through it. She would know. She was no stranger to trauma.

* * *

_Her mother remarries when she's fifteen. Her step-father's name is Carl. He's older, with a receding hairline, sallow skin, and straight white teeth that he bares in a smile that's more snarl than grin. He drinks too much, yells too often, and hits her mom one too many times._

_Once was enough, she thinks, but her mother doesn't agree. They fight about it, often._

_"You can't let him put his hands on you like that."_

_"Darcy," her mother sighs. "You don't understand."_

_"What's there to understand? That asshole thinks he can push you around and he has no right!"_

_"This is adult stuff. This is between me and my husband. I don't need you butting in. You—"_

_"So I should, what? Just let him hit you? Are you crazy? No! If he touches you again, I'll kill him myself."_

_"Darcy Marie!" her mother shouts. "You will not say things like that in my house, do you hear me? You will respect Carl."_

_"He—"_

_"This conversation is over. You need to go to your room. And when Carl comes home, you're going to apologize for the way you've been acting."_

_"Bullshit I am," she scoffs, backing up toward her room. "I don't care if you think it's okay. He hurts you again and I'll hurt him."_

_She shoves her way into her room and slams the door behind her, frustrated tears stinging her eyes._

_She doesn't know what to do, but she's angry. She's so, so angry, and she knows it's not going to do much. But she wants to. She wants so badly to scare that asshole so he never comes back. To make her mom realize what she's doing._

_But she can't._

_Three weeks. Carl lasts three weeks before he hits his wife again._

_Darcy starts keeping a bat in her bedroom. She sleeps with it. And she tells herself…_ one day _. One day she's going to make sure he never hurts anybody again._

* * *

Darcy had long come to accept just how much of a breach of privacy her job allowed her. She had to say though, she particularly enjoyed listening to Rogers' and Barnes' conversations. Sometimes she made popcorn to eat when she listened in. What was the point in pretending it wasn't prime entertainment when there was no one around to see her indulging? So, she got comfortable in her living room and turned on the listening devices, feet up on her coffee table as she closed her eyes and let their voices wash over her…

"What was her name?" Barnes wondered.

"Who?" Rogers asked.

"The dame you got set up with. You took her out for drinks last night, right?"

"Oh, uh, Sarah. Yeah, she was nice."

"Nice?"

"Sure. She walks dogs. And I actually looked into that. She not an undercover; she just really likes dogs."

Barnes snorted. "You gotta get over that. You said it yourself, Carter was just doing her job."

"Yeah? Because getting spied on by the neighbors is just something I should expect now?"

Barnes hummed. "You pissed she was spying on you or that you were interested in seeing where things could go with who you _thought_ she was?"

There was a long pause then, before he admitted, "I have no idea, honestly. At first, yeah, I was pissed that they were keeping an eye on me. I'm not a kid; I don't need a babysitter. But…"

"But you started liking her. Looking forward to seeing her," Barnes said knowingly.

"It was just nice. Being just neighbor Steve. A normal guy. No American flag or shield or any of that."

"Yeah… Is that who you are though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you 'just neighbor Steve'? 'Cause if I remember correctly, and I do, you were never _just_ anything… Might not always fit with your love life, punk, but you're a soldier. You're Captain fuckin' America. That's not goin' anywhere. Not even for the hot nurse next door."

Rogers snorted. "That your love advice, Buck?"

"It's all you're getting. Are we gonna watch this movie, or what? I still got 40 years to catch up on."

"Sure. But I don't know why we're watching Diamonds are Forever," Rogers muttered. "All you ever do is complain that Bond's not doing it right."

"That's half the fun."

Darcy grinned as she sat back on her couch and cued up the same movie on her laptop so she could watch it along with them. Rogers might not appreciate it, but she personally enjoyed Barnes' running commentary; caustic and full of mocking, her favorite.

* * *

_The problem with Carl only escalates. He's not only abusive, he's… handsy. He starts hugging Darcy whenever he feels like it, which is often. He holds on for too long, burying his nose in her hair, and rubs his hands over her back; her skin crawls every time._

_He smells like whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. It makes bile crawl up her throat whenever she gets too close and gets a whiff of him._

_She avoids home whenever possible, spending more time at her friend's houses when she can. Otherwise, she takes her daddy's guns and she finds somewhere deserted to shoot at targets. It helps her focus, drains the stress, and grounds her. When she has to go home, she feels a little less vulnerable when she can smell gunpowder on herself._

_She pretends the targets are Carl's face. That should've been a warning._

* * *

After nearly two weeks of surveillance, the popcorn was no longer a staple and she started feeling a shift.

Barnes' and Rogers' friendship was… an enigma. Or maybe she had just been shit at making friends. That was probably more likely. She'd had friends, plenty of friends, but nobody that she was really close to, nobody she confided in or looked to for guidance. Not until later, not until she became what she was now, and even that blew up in her face. But Barnes and Rogers, their friendship was real, it was solid.

"You should get out more, or come with me to the Tower…" Rogers told him.

"I went out today."

"Did you meet anyone? Talk to anyone?"

Barnes' lack of answer was answer enough.

Rogers sighed. "I know it's been difficult… But at least at the Tower, you know people… I'm not around as much, I'm sorry for that, I want to be here, but there's… There's just so much to do and…. You said you were feeling better."

"I am."

"Buck, you're _hiding_ …"

"I'm not like them, and they know it. I know it. _You_ know it. I don't fit there."

"You could, if you wanted to. All of us have pasts, things we regret, things we've done that we don't think anyone will understand. Trust me, they'll understand better than most."

"Walking around the Tower feels like being in a science fair," Barnes muttered. "You won top prize with your fucked up assassin."

"It's not like that…" Rogers sighed. "Yes, they're wary, they're still getting used to things. It takes some adjustment. But hiding out isn't helping; if anything, it's making it worse."

There was a pause then, before Barnes, his voice softer, the edge finally dulled, asked, "What if I never get better?"

Rogers stayed quiet, and Darcy found herself leaning forward in her seat, eager to hear the answer.

"What if this is just who I am now? I have my memories, Steve, _all_ of them. So who's to say this isn't as good as it gets for me?" Barnes laughed then, but it was bitter and short.

"I don't regret you. Not any part of you. You're my best friend, Bucky… When I said the end of the line, I meant the _end_ of the line. I don't expect you to bounce back and be who you were. But I do expect you to _try_. To get out there, to make friends, to just… be a part of something. Because you deserve that. You deserve to have friends around you."

"I do. I got you, don't I?"

Rogers sighed, but his answer was sincere, "Yeah, you do. Always."

"Maybe that's all I need."

"I just… I want you to be happy."

"Yeah… I know."

For the first time in the eight years she'd been doing this job, Darcy felt like she was intruding. She wondered what the said about her.

* * *

_She's sixteen the first time Carl kisses her._

_She slaps him; it reverberates through her arm and rattles her bones. Adrenaline pumps so completely through her that she's dizzy with it. She thinks she should run, but she mostly just stands there, shocked. A voice inside of her calls her weak, calls her pathetic, tells her she shouldn't give him a chance to try again. She eyes the kitchen knives in the block on the counter and wonders how long it'll take to grab one and sink it deep into his belly. But he laughs at her, rubs a thumb over his cheek, and then just walks off into the living room, flopping down in the arm chair and turning on the TV. Like it's nothing. Like it didn't even happen._

_She's not sure what it means._

_She starts locking her door at night, but every sound, every creak of the house, wakes her up._

_She hides a hunting knife under her pillow, grips it so tight her hand hurts every morning when she wakes up._

_She's ready for him. She's not sure what that means or what'll happen, but she's ready._

* * *

The first time she let Barnes see her, she bumped into him in the street. It was a test. What would he do? Would he recognize her? See just how lethal she was in just a glance? She'd purposely stopped following him for two days. She let him think that his tail had left, let him relax. She kept an eye on him at the apartment only, and even then, it was only the recording of his and Rogers' conversations each day that she listened to. And then, on the third day, she went for a walk. There were three different routes he took to get to Goldie's gym, and he always switched on the walk back to the apartment. She took a chance on which one he would take that afternoon and picked up a coffee from a street vendor before making her way down the sidewalk, keeping her pace slow, even lazy, like she was in no rush to get anywhere, just out enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon.

He was coming toward her, head bowed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. While it looked like he wasn't watching where he was going, she knew he was carefully taking in every person that walked past him, how close they were getting, memorizing faces and mannerisms, looking for any sign that anyone around him was the enemy. She dropped her gaze to her purse and rifled around inside, searching for her phone which she'd already passed over three times, mumbling to herself that she needed to clean it out, when—

" _Oof_." They collided, shoulders slamming into each other hard enough that she spun on one heel, catching herself before she could be thrown to the ground. "Asshole," she complained, wringing her hand out from the hot coffee that spilled over the back. "You wanna watch where you're going next time?"

He was staring at her, brow furrowed, mouth pressed in a frown, and she knew he was taking stock of her. He could have walked away, never even looked at her, but he had. And that meant one of two things; she was made or she confused him. In the time she'd been watching him, he was careful, always managing to avoid people, ducking out of their way or staying under the radar for the most part. And, in other cases, he managed to intimidate without even really trying. Then again, it was probably an unconscious state, managing to look menacing without even trying to. It was engrained in him by now. But this was the first time he was forced to interact with anyone outside of who he'd met through Rogers since his liberation from HYDRA.

"This is where you apologize," she told him, brows hiked demandingly.

His lips pressed into a line and he dropped his gaze away for a moment. "I…" He nodded, short and awkward. "Sorry."

Well, this was no fun, she decided. He was quiet, reserved, so wary it was just _sad_. Not even an assassin got any joy out of kicking a puppy.

"Questionable excuse for an apology accepted…" She looked him over quickly. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I hit you kind of hard."

It wasn't a smile, not exactly, but his lips twitched. "Taken harder hits." Just as quickly as his unexpected show of good-natured humor reared its head, it was tamped down. He turned away, frown returning, and then looked back at her, eyes narrowed, and left. No goodbye, no clarification, nothing, just walked away.

It might have amused her, his complete lack of social skills, if she didn't know exactly why they were so unpolished.

Not for the first time, she found herself disliking the people that hired her, that used him up and spat him out.

Turning on her heel, she walked away, tossed her coffee in the garbage can, and made her way down the street, chewing her lip as she considered the job ahead of her. Because it just got a lot more complicated.

* * *

_The second time Carl kisses her, he doesn't let her get a slap in. He hits her before she can even pull her hand back, and she falls to the floor on her knees. It hurts, her legs and her face, and there's blood dribbling from her split lip. She screams when he grabs her hair, yanking her up from the floor, her back arched, and he paws his hand down her chest, sliding it back up to circle her throat to squeeze in warning._

_She whimpers; scared, angry. Her eyes are blurry with tears, darting around, wondering where her mother is, why she isn't helping her._

_Her daddy would kill him, she thinks. He would slit him from belly to throat and not even blink._

_But her daddy's not there. He's not coming._

_No one's coming._

_She has to do this herself, she thinks. She has to look out for herself. Because no one else will._

_Carl tears her sweater open, fabric splayed apart and ripped nearly down to the bottom. His hand dips into her bra to touch her in ways only boys she's given permission to, boys she_ wanted _to, have. He doesn't ask. She hates him for it. Hates him for thinking he has any right. Hates him for how he's destroyed her mother, her family, her home. She hates him for the putrid smell that turns her stomach and the fear that shadows her every step this last year and a half. She hates him so completely that it burns inside her, like a fire licking at her blood and setting it aflame._

 _And then something just…_ clicks _. And that hate becomes action._

_He's torn the strap of her bra and it's hanging useless when she throws an elbow back that catches him in the cheek. He stumbles back, cursing up a storm, and she shoves up to her feet._

_She hits him first with a pot that was sitting idle on the counter, empty except for a little bit of filmy hot dog water at the bottom. The pot slams into his mouth, sends one of those straight, white teeth flying, and she raises it up like a hammer of justice._

_But he comes at her all the same, doesn't even pause, slams into her middle with his shoulder and pushes her back against the counter. It digs into her back and sends the air rushing out of her lungs. It gives him the upper hand like he wants and they scramble against each other. The pot slips from her hand, so she claws her fingers down his cheek, tearing open skin and spilling blood. Triumph and pride rushes through her._

_She's not sure where it's going or how it'll end. She's not really sure how it_ would _have gone, because then her mother's there, yelling, "What the hell is going on here?"_

_And Carl – God, she hates that man – turns around and starts yelling that Darcy is crazy. That he just gave her a little kiss, "real father-like" he says, and she lost her shit and attacked him._

_Maybe it's because Carl looks worse than her, maybe it's because her mother's been drinking so much lately, maybe it's because her mother still can't bear to look at her, but she takes Carl's side. Tells Darcy to "clean up this mess, for Chrissakes, Darcy, it was just a kiss."_

_And then that thought before, that nobody will ever look out for her again, becomes a reality._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is about 75 percent done on my computer. I didn't want to start posting it until I was nearly finished. There'll be a lot more darcy/bucky interaction coming up. This is just to sort of set the groundwork for Darcy and where her head's at in this particular case. If you're interested in more, please let me know, I'd be happy to update quickly.
> 
> I will remind/warn you, however, there's a non-consensual scene coming up that could be triggering for some people. I'm sure at this point you can tell who will be perpetuating that assault and it does pave a path for Darcy moving forward. It's not something I usually write, I tend to avoid it, but it does mold Darcy in a lot of ways. That said, if you're not comfortable reading that, it is in the next chapter, so be forewarned and please do take precautions. I wouldn't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please review; they're my lifeblood.
> 
> \- **Lee | Fina**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **polyvore** : [Darcy's outfit [1]](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126474495), [Darcy's outfit [2]](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126478574)  
>  **faceclaim** : [darcy lewis & bucky barnes](http://sarcasticfina.tumblr.com/post/90617144532)  
>  **music** : [8 tracks](http://8tracks.com/bitchface-mcgee/these-violent-delights) (not mine)
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING** : There is rape of a minor in this chapter. Be aware and please take this into consideration before reading. It is the second italicized part.

**II.**

_The dishes pile up. The laundry goes unwashed. The cupboards and fridge get emptier and emptier._

_Darcy watches her home become a shell of what it was, like a mirror to her mother. What was once filled with love and laughter, now echoes with the noise of the television, of beer and whiskey bottles clattering, of a lighter clicking on and off. The smell of her mother's perfume, her father's aftershave, the potpourri her mother put in various rooms, is long gone, replaced with the pungent smell of empty beer cans and bottles, piling up in the corner by the overflowing garbage. Cigarette smoke clouds the living room, clinging to the furniture, seeping into the walls._

_Darcy avoids it all. She starts using her window to get in and out each morning and night. If she has to go to the bathroom in the dead of night, she holds it. If she gets hungry, she eats at her friends or raids the supermarket for something, anything, to get her by. When she hears them fighting, she learns to drown it out, putting on her headphones and turning up the volume as loud as it'll go. But she can feel her house rattling as her mother is thrown against walls, she can feel the rage build up in her bones as she wants to go out and help, to stop him, but the last time she did, she got a black eye and a fat lip for her trouble. Only one of which was from Carl, her mother slapped her so hard across the face her ears rung. And her apologies, her "Darcy, I didn't mean to, please, I—I'm sorry. I—You just never know when to leave well enough alone," it all leaves a bitter taste in her mouth._

_Let them kill each other if they want, she decides._

_Still, she grips the knife under her pillow tight._

_She tells herself she didn't mean to leave her door unlocked, but some part of her knows… She hopes he tries, hope he comes through that door to rage at her like he does her mother, because if he does, she'll gut him where he stands._

_'Go on,' she encourages in her head. 'Go ahead and try.'_

_He doesn't come, but the rage continued to simmer under her skin, waiting for a chance to strike._

* * *

Sitting in her apartment, a far cry from where she actually set down roots, Darcy considered the quandary she found herself in. Dressed to impress (literally, no one but herself), in her underwear (Captain America, in fact, because  _irony_ ) and an oversized Ramones t-shirt, she thumbed through the, long ago memorized but still worth re-reading, folders of information she'd collected on the main players, which really only amounted to two.

Barnes and Rogers.

Rogers would be a problem, she'd decided that from the word 'Go.' He wasn't on her list, and she made it a rule never to take out anybody she wasn't paid to. Which meant she would have to plan around him. He spent most of his days at Stark Tower, called home regularly, and seemed to be working on rebuilding SHIELD. In the first two weeks she watched them, Rogers was home every night, but, more and more, he was working, taking on jobs to hunt down a few known HYDRA agents. This gave her an opening, because taking on Barnes while Rogers was there would be asking for trouble. Even if she managed a headshot, which was becoming far less appealing to her, having him nearby would present a problem in packing up and disappearing. She'd been careful in hiding her trail, but she wouldn't underestimate Rogers, or his grief, in coming for her just as soon as Barnes was hit. More, some part of her didn't want him there to witness it. She'd read the reports; he'd watched Barnes fall from the train. He was helpless, had to listen to his best friend fall, screaming, and could do nothing to change it. And listening in on their conversations, hearing that very obvious loyalty they had to each other, it had an effect.

Maybe she was growing a heart. She'd long thought it had died and the ground had been salted so another wouldn't have a chance to grow, but maybe she'd been wrong.

The point was, she was beginning to second guess herself here. And that made things difficult.

She didn't like difficult.

Darcy played to her strengths and, while she knew she could get the job done, she wasn't so sure she  _wanted_ the job done.

* * *

_She's seventeen the first time she kills someone. And she never regrets it._

_She's managed to keep her distance. She takes to staying at friend's houses or hiding out in the shed her daddy keeps all of his guns in, of which only she has a key. Carl's smart enough not to come for her there._

_But he tries his luck one night when her mother's at bingo. Darcy gets in late from studying at her friend's house and swears a storm under her breath when her bedroom window won't open. She doesn't think much of it. It gets stuck sometimes. So, she goes through the house, quickly, making her way toward her bedroom. Her footsteps are as quiet as they can be, aware of how much the floor can creak under any pressure whatsoever. She's almost within reach of safety when her mother's bedroom door flies open. And there's Carl. Looming, leaning in the doorway in that awful, stained wife beater of his; an apt name given the person wearing it._

_When he grins at her, eyes glazed, the pungent odor of whiskey and sweat wafting off him, she knows what's coming. A shiver of cold dread runs down her spine right before she turns and sprints away. Her sneakers squeal on the kitchen linoleum as she races across the floor and through the back door to the yard. She nearly trips as she crosses the porch and leaps down to the grass, adrenaline pumping through her veins and fear clawing at her skin._

_Despite being a slob of the highest caliber and always finding a way not to put any physical work into anything, Carl catches her halfway across the yard, an arm banded around her waist, and shoves her face down into the grass so hard that she almost can't breathe. Part of it is the fear, she knows. It's like a vice around her lungs. Panic crawls up her throat and exits in a terrified, angry groan._

_She wants to turn over, to shove her feet up and kick him in the chest, the face, to get him off of her. She wants to hear the satisfying sound of bone crunching under her foot, but he doesn't let her. He reaches under her and fiddles with the front of her jeans, pulling at the button and yanking down the zipper. Horror makes her scream, makes her claw at the ground and start crawling, desperately, toward the shed. He grabs her behind the neck, his blunt fingernails digging into her skin, and shoves her down again, pinning her there while his other hand pulls at her jeans and her underwear, yanking them roughly down her thighs. She's crying then, sobbing and screaming and calling him every name she can think of. She pleads, not to him, but to her father and her mother and to anybody, please, just anybody, help her, save her, but no one…_

_No one comes._

_No one saves her._

_When he's done with her, he leaves her there in the yard, half-naked and bleeding and broken._

_Broken._

_Because she isn't Darcy anymore. Not then. She isn't the girl who sat on her father's knee every chance she got. She isn't the girl who stood on a stool to watch her mother cook and bake, trying to memorize her recipes, passed down from her grandmother. She isn't the girl who could spend hours doing nothing but knitting; hats and blankets and socks, all of which her parents used and showed off proudly. She isn't who she was. She isn't sure who she is, but it's not that girl._

_When she finally gets up, she doesn't know how much time has passed, but there's something cold inside her. Something dark and empty and made of ice._

_It hurts. Everything hurts. But she shoves that pain to the back of her mind, swallows it down, and pulls her jeans up. She limps as she walks to the shed, but it doesn't stop her. She pulls the keys out of her jeans pocket and fiddles with the lock, her hands trembling. She gets her father's favorite shot gun out. A Browning A-5. She loads it slowly, unhurried, letting her fingers glide down the grip with reverence. Her hands stop shaking then._

_And then she walks inside her house, her hair in disarray, grass and dirt clinging to her, tear tracks still drying on her cheeks, and she finds Carl sitting in his arm chair, a bottle of beer in hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips._

_He gets out, "No, no, no," staring up at her with wide, desperate eyes. His cigarette falls from his lips to the carpet along with the beer bottle, rolling, spilling, as he raises his hands up in defense._

_She shoots three times, center to the chest, and doesn't feel one bit of regret. She leaves him, dead on the floor, blood pooling around him, and walks away. She gathers up her things, takes her father's favorites from his gun and knife collection, lights a match and walks out of the house, letting it burn behind her._

_She never looks back._

* * *

Sometimes, Darcy wished she had someone she could talk to about these situations. It wasn't like there was a 24-hour crisis line for assassins who were second-guessing themselves. She imagined that would end poorly for anybody who called, which was a little ironic, actually. Because if they were calling, they probably weren't the type sitting high on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Herself excluded, of course.

In any case, this was one of the few times she lamented the severe lack of friendships when it came to being an assassin. Sure, she'd met people just like her. They didn't have conventions or anything, but there were occasions where more than one was hired to do a job and whoever got there first reaped the spoils. And other times, when multiple assassins were hired by various sources and they had to rock, paper, scissors it to see who would take the shot so they could both leave, happily paid and no worse off. So, she knew a few other people in her line of work, but calling them up to complain that she wasn't sure she wanted to kill someone wouldn't exactly be like an episode of Sex and the City, where Carrie and the girls got together to talk about their various issues over cosmos and tried not to judge each other. If anything, telling someone would be a sign of weakness, not one she could afford in her line of work.

Some of them had handlers they could go to, mentors that could help them figure things out. And Darcy had too, once upon a time, but no more. So, that settled that; she had to figure this out on her own. To kill or not to kill, that was the question. And not one she struggled with often, to be totally honest.

More than once, she found herself sitting in her window, eye at the scope, watching Barnes walk around his apartment in his low slung sweatpants, shiny metal arm on display. She watched him lay on the floor, doing sit ups and push ups, working up a sweat. Or sitting on the couch, legs curled under him, as he browsed what the TV had to offer. More often than not, though, he was a reader; preferring the arm chair that left only his foot in view through the window, spending hours lost in some book or another. He was getting comfortable with the window, though. Some nights, he stood there, forehead braced on the glass, and stared out at the world, his brow furrowed, as if he were still trying to understand it.

The simple fact that she had the perfect angle, that she could blow his brains out at any moment, and not once…  _not once_ had her finger strayed to that trigger, said a whole lot more than she wanted it to.

* * *

_She's nineteen and she's lived in six different cities. She gets antsy, worried someone might recognize her and turn her in for murder and arson. She's living on the streets of New York, paying for food with the money she gets out of pick-pocketed wallets, when she meets Camille in the subway. A sophisticated woman, early fifties, dark skinned, elegant and confident._

_It's not until later that she realizes Camille could have more than handled the situation herself. But in the moment, all Darcy sees is a man attacking a woman, trying to intimidate her, touching her like he has any right. He's got his hand wrapped around Camille's wrist and he's screaming in her face, shoving her back against the wall. He raises his hand to hit her when Darcy strikes. She doesn't pause, doesn't question what she's doing; she just reacts. She takes the hunting knife from her hip, leaps onto his back, and slits his throat where he stands, memories of Carl flashing in her head all the while._

_While he bleeds out on the ground between them, Camille looks at her, wearing clothes too big for her frame, skinnier than she's ever been, dirty and tired and just a little wild. And Camille smiles at her. It's not friendly; it's a little terrifying, actually. But then Camille holds a hand out to her, all polished, manicured nails and gold bracelets. "You must be hungry…" she says, and Darcy's traitorous stomach proves her right._

_Camille buys her dinner at a diner Darcy imagines she'd never set foot in otherwise. As it is, Camille wipes down the table with a napkin and does her best not to actually touch anything. Still, she buys Darcy whatever she wants and then makes her a job proposal she can't refuse. So, she doesn't. She signs up to be Camille's protégé, realizing soon enough that Camille is a trained, but retired, assassin and thinks she might just be able to take all of that raw talent she sees in Darcy and make it into something useful._

_Darcy looks into the eyes of the devil and signs away her soul._

* * *

The second time she let Barnes see her, she just wanted confirmation that she was making the right decision.

She'd always been the moth that danced too close to the flame, and this was no different.

There was a bar a few blocks down from his apartment. He didn't go often, but sometimes, when he was getting antsy, he would leave, walk down and sit at a table by himself, knocking back shot after shot of vodka. It was the only thing he ever drank. She wondered sometimes, if he was trying to get drunk, or if taking the edge off really just took that much alcohol for him.

As it turned out, he was a sloppy drunk.

Darcy, as a rule, avoided bars. The smell of whiskey still made her stomach twist up. But she made an exception this time, in part because she occasionally liked to test her own ability to stand up in the face of her own fears. Years ago, her mentor told her that what she did, her job, it was her way of coping, of therapy. Darcy wasn't so sure about that, seeing as therapy probably led to a happier, more proactive life, not to more death, but then, her mentor had a reason for telling her that. And, to be frank, she wasn't the same girl that her step-father had brutally raped in her own backyard, nor was she the girl that shot him three times in the chest and left her childhood house to burn to ashes. She was something else, a hybrid of them, she supposed. She was stronger, more certain of herself, comfortable in her skin. Was she a good person? God, not likely. She would laugh if someone said otherwise. But she was free. She made her own choices. She controlled her life and what she did with it.

She took a seat at the bar where she could keep an eye on him without being obvious; the paneling behind the bar shelves was made up of mirrors, giving her a view of everything and everyone. She ordered a beer and nursed it throughout the night. Being drunk would leave her vulnerable, and she was  _never_ vulnerable. Not anymore.

So, she sipped at her beer, splitting her attention between the hockey game playing on the screen in the corner and on the sad excuse for an ex-Russian assassin getting wasted on vodka.

It would be funny later, when she had time to think about it, she decided.

But it wasn't funny as it happened.

He was sad. Pitiful, even. Maybe she really would be doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery.

He drank until closing and passed out on the table, face buried in his metal arm, shrouded in at least three layers of clothing.

He looked like shit, to say the least. His hair was in disarray, falling out of the low ponytail he tied it in at the nape of his neck. He had a couple days' growth of stubble that needed a good shaving. His eyes were drooping and glazed when open, with heavy bags beneath. He struck too strong a resemblance to the sad hobo that first showed up on Rogers' doorstep more than a year ago.

When the bartender walked over to him, sighing, muttering about having to call the cops to come haul his drunk ass away, Darcy stepped in. "He's my neighbor, actually. I can probably get him home." The bartender shouldn't have trusted her. He didn't know either of them, had no reason to believe her. Maybe it was a little sexist, assuming she couldn't do anything to do this much larger man. Or maybe he just didn't want the hassle of waiting for the cops to show up and drag his drunk customer's ass out of the bar, especially since it would probably have them asking questions he couldn't answer, like why he didn't cut Barnes off earlier. Either way, he waved them off, telling her, "He's all yours, lady."

She shook Barnes' arm gently, her hand already reaching for the knife strapped to her thigh, ready to take him out if she had to. But he barely stirred, vaguely lifting his head and peering up at her through squinted, bloodshot eyes. He was gone, to say the least.

She sighed at him, pursing her lips.

"Coffee," he mumbled, and she snorted.

"Yeah, you could use a pot or two." She gave his arm a tug. "C'mon. Bar's closed. It's time to go home."

He groaned, muttering under his breath. Her Russian was rusty, to say the least, but the general idea was that he didn't want to get up, or leave, he just wanted to sleep.

It took some doing, getting him up from the table, arm around her shoulders as she dragged him out of the bar, but she managed.

She asked him where he lived just in case he actually remembered it the next day. Of course, as he pointed down the road and they started walking, it occurred to her that this was the prime time to take him out. Then again, the bartender might remember her and put two and two together… Or maybe she was just making excuses. She could turn down the alley twenty feet ahead of her, lead him down into the darkest parts, and put two bullets in his head. Or a knife through his neck. Or any of the other multitude of ways she knew to kill a person.

Instead, they walked right by the mouth of that alley and two more until he swayed on his feet, motioning toward the building he lived in.

She helped him up the stairs, pausing twice as he leaned too far out of her reach and nearly toppled out of her arms while he tried to dig his keys out of his jeans. Eventually, he found them and she wrestled them away to get the door open, helping him down the hall and into the elevator. She brought him up three floors and down the hall to his and Rogers' apartment, occasionally asking for directions, despite having long memorized the blueprints of the building.

Rogers was still out as she helped Barnes down the hall to his bedroom. It was plain, with empty walls and standard furniture. She wondered how often Rogers had pushed for him to try and make it more his own, add a little color, some pictures, anything to remind him of himself, before eventually giving up. She helped Barnes to his bed, with its dark blankets all tucked in and smoothed down military style. Turning him, she gave him a little push so he'd sit down on the edge. He complied, more or less plopping down, arms on his knees, head ducked. Staring down at him, she found herself lingering, considering her options. She could help him with his shoes, it was the polite thing to do, but that put her in a bad position. He could choke her out, snap her neck, any number of things, and she'd be all too vulnerable to it. Then again, this whole night put her in a terrible position. He could have killed her just as easily as she could have killed him.

It was a sobering reminder.

Of course, it happened while she was already mid-way through undoing the laces on his boots and pulling them from his feet.

She looked up then, to see if he'd sobered up any.

He was staring at her, still looking more than a little drunk, but his eyes weren't as hazy as they'd been before. They stared right at her,  _through_ her, and she wondered what, exactly, they saw.

Whatever it was, he must have misread a few things, because he leaned forward and slanted his mouth across hers.

What followed was something she would later chalk up to the beer she'd been drinking earlier; it must've hindered her ability to think more than she'd expected, because she didn't shove him away. She didn't pull out her hunting knife and put it between his ribs. She didn't warn him never to touch her like that again. Which she'd done more than a few times in the past with men who'd taken liberties she never asked for and hadn't wanted. Instead, she let herself lean in, let her lips part as his tongue ran the seam of her mouth. She let herself get lost in the feel of his lips moving against hers, his tongue stroking and flicking, his fingers burying at the nape of her neck and tangling in her hair. It was hot and needy and full of more passion than she'd found in any man before him.

He was kissing down her cheek, the rasp of his stubble dragging against her skin in a way that made her shiver, anticipation warming her down to her toes. His teeth scraped down the line of her jaw, mouthing a kiss at the hinge, and then she  _woke up_. What was she doing? What was  _he_ doing? No, never mind, he was drunk and lonely and probably  _vaguely_  recognized her. She was a hired assassin meant to kill him and instead she was getting  _lost_ in him. And, yes, sure, she'd done this to get close to marks before, but she'd never felt it quite so…  _sincerely_ before. In the past, she'd let men get close, let them take her up to their hotel rooms, and then, just as they were distracted with her, she would strike.

She was reminded, once again, that she should, and could, be doing that right now. But her hand didn't stray for the gun strapped to one thigh or the knife on the other. And that was a cold shot of reality.

With a groan of disappointment in herself, both for not killing him and for putting an end to what was happening, she stood, staring down at him, panting a little, her lips swollen, her hair in disarray.

He stared up at her, still looking lost and lonely and incredible vulnerable.

He reached for her, a hand on her hip, and leaned forward, resting his forehead on her stomach.

What a pitiful puppy, she decided.

He was no guard dog. No vicious killer. He was just a man. A broken man.

Shaking her head at herself, she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back. He fell against his bed, staring up at her with half-lidded eyes. She reached down and tugged his legs up by the knee, pushing them onto the bed with him. He crawled up his bed a little and dropped his head on his pillow. And it was a mistake, of course, it was a weakness, really, but she reached out, stroking her fingers through his hair, and let her palm slide down his cheek, watching as his eyes fell closed, mouth turned up in that faint, vague smile of his.

She walked away as he fell asleep, closing the door behind her, and frowned to herself.

What the fuck was she doing?

* * *

_She takes to training like a fish to water. Knives, hand to hand, guns (long and short range)._

_Camille puts a weapon in her hands and tells her to prove herself._

_So, she does._

_Her mentor is quick to correct her, to tell her what she's doing wrong and how she can fix it. To rearrange her body for maximum effect, to make sure every blow lands as hard as it can, every knife is thrown with unmatched accuracy, every bullet hits with lethal grace._

_Darcy sheds her past, her history, and becomes something else, something new._

_"It's like a phoenix rising from the ashes, isn't it?" Camille tells her, smiling all the while._

_And she's known Camille for more than a year now, but that smile always feels like a serrated blade on her skin, just waiting for one wrong move before she cuts._

_"Reborn," Darcy answers. "Shiny and new."_

_"The tears of a phoenix are said to have healing properties, you know…" Camille hands her two blades, watches as she weighs them in her palms to get a feel for how she should throw them. "But we don't cry, do we?" At Darcy's shaking head, she nods. "So we heal in other ways. We cleanse our sins in blood, Darcy."_

_"Isn't that the opposite of clean?"_

_"No." She catches Darcy by the chin and lifts it up so they're eye to eye. She stares down at her, shadows clouding the edges of dark eyes, only they aren't haunted, and she knows that whatever Camille's done, she has no regrets. She feels no remorse. The shadows are something else, something cold. "Clean is what we decide it is. Now…" She turns Darcy toward a wall, pinned with headshots of targets. "Tell me… Who's first?"_

_Darcy flips one dagger up into the air and catches it between her fingers before she throws it. It lands center in a man's forehead and she smiles._

_It's time to cleanse her battered soul. Whatever soul she has left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **author's note** : Thank you everybody who's reviewed; I really appreciate it and am glad you're sticking around for the ride. On the subject of Darcy and her rape by Carl, I would like to touch on her feelings of being 'broken,' because I don't want to imply that all rape survivors are broken and there's no chance of help or recovery. I'm only trying to convey how Darcy felt in that moment, which was that she was broken beyond repair and that the person she'd been had basically been destroyed by Carl's actions and her mother's inaction. So, that's where I was going with that and the way it was written and I truly hope I haven't offended or triggered anyone.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you all thought about the scene between Darcy and Bucky and the evolution happening there. So, please review; they're my lifeblood.
> 
> \- **Lee | Fina**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **polyvore** : [Darcy's outfit [1]](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126546203), [Darcy's outfit [2]](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126809302)  
>  **faceclaim** : [darcy lewis & bucky barnes](http://sarcasticfina.tumblr.com/post/90617144532) | [camille](http://41.media.tumblr.com/c49c31235d5371116e7f9624e11310d6/tumblr_n7cpp2yuss1qhgqv2o3_r2_500.jpg)  
>  **music** : [8 tracks](http://8tracks.com/bitchface-mcgee/these-violent-delights) (not mine)

**III.**

_For the most part, Darcy is happy with the turn her life has taken. She's no longer cold, sleeping on park benches or in doorways of buildings, huddled as close to the wall as she can get, knees pressed to her chest, everything that matters to her clutched in her lap. She's not starving, her stomach tightening and lurching, mouth watering as she sees people pass her in the street, absently eating, without a care in the world. She doesn't smell of sweat and grime and the streets; she showers more than she really needs to, actually. And she relishes every part of it. The food, the hot water, the soft pillows. There's some time readjusting, but for the most part, she loves it. What is normal to most is a luxury to her._

_But there are some things she could do without._

_Camille is… intense. She wants perfection. She demands it. And, at first, Darcy understands. It's a matter of survival. Becoming an assassin isn't easy. It's not like she's just going to walk up to someone, shoot them point blank and skip happily away. There are always complications and it's better to be prepared than to be taken off guard. So she tells herself that Camille is only trying to keep her alive. She yells at her, screams at her, to pay attention, to throw the knives again, until they're perfect, to aim better, aim until the only thing she hits is center. And if she doesn't, if she can't, she has to do it again. And again. And again. It doesn't matter if she's tired or she's hungry or she's had to piss for three fucking hours._

_'Throw it again.'_

_'Shoot again.'_

_'Is that center, Darcy? No? Then what does it need to be?'_

_'Again, Darcy.'_

_Again. Again. Again._

_Sometimes she doesn't even need Camille to be there; she can just hear her voice in her head. Harsh. Cold. Brooking no argument._

_She throws knife after knife, until her fingers are torn apart, until her wrists tremble from doing the same movement, over and over, for hours on end. She is exhausted. Tears sting her eyes. But she doesn't tell Camille. She doesn't beg for sleep. She doesn't ask for a second to get herself together. Because if she does… she won't like the response._

_The last time she tried, she regretted it…_

_"Do you want to be the best?" Camille asked her, plucking each knife, one by one, from the wall, and casually walking back to where Darcy stood, looking so poised, so together, while Darcy was struggling to stay on her feet. She'd been on her feet and practicing for 28 hours; awake for another 5 before that. No breaks, no sleep, no water, nothing. 'It's practice,' Camille had told her. 'You never know how long a job will take. What you'll be forced to do. How long you'll have to wait for just the right moment.' And Darcy understood that, she did, but fuck, she was so tired._

_"Of course," she answered, nodding quickly, even as it made her dizzy._

_"And will I make you into the best?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Then shouldn't you listen to my tutelage?" Camille raised an eyebrow, turning on her heel and walking toward Darcy. She laid out six knives on a table within Darcy's reach and brought a seventh with her, twisting it around in her hand, dragging her fingers down the edge, sharp enough to split her skin open at the lightest of pressures. A seam of blood appeared on Camille's finger, but she didn't flinch or wince or pull away. She merely turned the knife over in her hand and pressed the edge to Darcy's cheek, wet with Camille's blood, dripping against Darcy's skin._

_Darcy felt her pulse hammer at her throat. An instinct inside her, born of her time both with Camille and of before her, of Carl and the streets, made her want to react, to strike, to take the blade for herself and put her attacker out of commission. But it was Camille. It wasn't an attacker. It was her savior. Her mentor. And she couldn't hurt her. Not for anything. So she stood, staring into the dark gleam of Camille's eyes, and she willed her hands not to try and stop the blade pressing against her skin, waiting for one wrong movement so it could prove its superiority._

_And then Camille smirked, her lips curling up in a sinister smile that chilled Darcy's blood. "You will be the best, Darcy. I will hone every one of your skills. I will make you unbreakable. And in order to do that, I have to break you first." She stared at her searchingly. "Do you understand that?"_

_She swallowed tightly, her heart thundering in her chest, and she parted her lips, her mouth dry as she whispered, "Yes."_

_Camille stared at her a moment longer and then nodded, drawing the knife back and placing it with the others. She then reached forward and plucked the end of Darcy's shirt forward so she could wipe away the blood still trickling from her hand. Stepping away then, she said, "All seven. Center. And then you can rest. Go."_

_Darcy, her hands shaking, curled them up into fists and squeezed them tight. She took a deep breath, walked to the table, and let it out. She plucked up a knife and got into position, weighed the knife in her fingers and palm, and then she focused._

_She missed one._

_So she threw them all again._

_And again._

_And again._

_Until she was perfect._

_Until Camille told her she could stop._

_Because she was a machine._

_She was a dog._

_And Camille was her owner._

* * *

Darcy struggled with the decision, pacing the length of her apartment, plucking at her sweater absently. Indecision never looked good on her, or so this situation was proving to her. She'd always been a jump in, head first, ask questions later kind of girl. When it came to work, it took more attention to detail, obviously, but someone didn't become an assassin and do the kinds of things she had done without having a reckless streak in them. And it had served her well over the years. Her gut had never turned her wrong. It always knew when something or someone was hinky. It always told her when she should turn down a job and walk away. It had saved her from capture at least twice in the past and served her well in hand-to-hand time and again. And now her gut was telling, no,  _screaming_ at her to pay attention.

Whenever she took a job, she made sure the people hiring her knew that three weeks' worth of observation was a starting point. At the end of three weeks, she would either take or turn down the job. If she turned them down, then it was three weeks wasted and she made no money. For a high profile hit like Barnes, she was offered a pretty penny. Enough that, if she were so inclined, she could retire to somewhere sunny and never touch a gun again. Although, why she'd want to do a thing like that, she had no idea. Regardless, money was money, and she really loved money, so turning down this job would be turning down her biggest paycheck yet.

 _But_ …

Her gut said no. And she lived by her gut.

Glancing at the clock, she sighed, walking back to her living room to take a seat on the couch. She knocked back the glass of wine she'd poured for herself earlier and left behind to wear a hole in the hallway carpet. There were specific times she had to contact the man who hired her and the window was small. She brought up the messaging window, set up to be untraceable, erasing all information and data as soon as it closed on her end.

 **ashes2ashes** :  _Available?_

A long pause followed, which was filled with her chewing on her thumb nail in a rare show of anxiety.

And then…

[ _Client 3247 is typing a response…_ ]

 **Client3247** :  _Yes._

 **ashes2ashes** :  _Consider this my resignation from the job._

 **Client3247** : _? We had an agreement!_

 **ashes2ashes** :  _I told you – 3 weeks. Today marks the end; I don't want the job._

 **Client3247** :  _Is this about money? I can offer you more. Name your price._

Darcy wasn't a saint; in the past, she'd done this for exactly the reason he was suggesting. More money. But that wasn't the situation here. And, while, yes, part of her was eager to see just how much he would pay, her gut was still telling her this was one job she wouldn't be taking.

 **Client3247** :  _Are you there?_

 **Client3247** :  _Give me a number!_

 **Client3247** :  _This target will make you a LEGEND._

 **Client3247** :  _Answer me!_

 **ashes2ashes** :  _I don't like to repeat myself. The answer is no. Thank you for your business. Good luck in future endeavors._

[ _Client 3247 is typing a response_ …]

Darcy closed out of the window, effectively shutting them down with no way to contact her unless she chose to answer queries about herself through the grapevine.

Closing her laptop with a snap, she let out an annoyed grunt and grabbed up her wine glass, making her way into the kitchen to retrieve the bottle as she ran an aggravated hand through her hair. Leaving her glass in the sink, she pitched the bottle back and took a long drag straight from the top. Closing her eyes, she licked her lips and shook her head. What would Camille say? she wondered. And then she snorted. Camille would ask her if she'd lost her mind, shove a gun into her hand, and send her out to do her job.

But Camille wasn't there, and Darcy, despite everything, knew it was the right choice.

Still, she took the wine with her and walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Turning on the listening device, she flopped down on her couch and decided to play eavesdropper on the Barnes and Rogers Show.

* * *

_She's twenty-three the first time she knows she can't kill her mark. She's killed countless before. This one should be no different. But she is._

_Her name is Eleanor. An older woman, elegant, dark-skinned, greying hair, and warm brown eyes. She gives off that friendly, loving, grandmotherly vibe, or so Darcy assumes, basing her opinion on television more than a personally enjoyable relationship with her own grandparents._

_Eleanor is a politician working toward change; the kind that would actually do the country good, that would build up the rights of women and help gain equality for all. If Darcy was the kind of person that stuff affected, she might've sung her praises, but she isn't. Still, Eleanor strikes a chord with her, so when the hit came down, she did some exploring to see if Eleanor was hiding any skeletons in her closet, and all she finds is a granddaughter._

_Alicia._

_Seven years old. Bright and happy, clinging to her grandmother's hand at every opportunity, head of her class, stubborn as a mule, and has a smile for everyone._

_Darcy knows that, even if she walks away, somebody else will step in. Eleanor will die, leaving behind seven year old Alicia, wiping that smile off her face quicker than anything else could._

_So she makes a different decision. She puts a bullet through the left eye of the man who hires her. A crooked politician who publicly opposed everything Eleanor stands for. Darcy doesn't feel any remorse when she puts him down and walks away. She only stays long enough to make sure nobody else will come for Eleanor, watches her play with her granddaughter in the garden behind her house, and then she packs up and moves on._

_Eleanor is the first, the only, one that Darcy not only turns down a job on, but makes sure lives._

_For a brief moment, she wonders if maybe there's a different path waiting for her, if maybe she could make a life for herself that both is and isn't what she does now. A bright path. A better path. The kind her father would be proud of._

_But she shuts the door on pipe dreams and cleans her guns instead. She is who she is. There's no going back._

* * *

Darcy told herself she wasn't leaving the apartment for one reason only. Because he would hire someone else and Darcy wanted to see who they considered to be worthy of killing Barnes. Who came second to her? Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. She would be satisfied in knowing who her competition was. Then she could pack up and move on to the next gig. That was it. That was all that mattered. It wasn't as if, in the past, she hadn't passed on jobs, knowing full well somebody else would step into her vacated shoes. She had. In those particular instances, she just hadn't wanted to be the one pulling the trigger. But Barnes felt like an Eleanor. He felt like a mark that shouldn't be marked at all.

She wasn't blind. She knew what he'd done, who he'd killed, that his reputation was well earned. But when she watched him, when she looked into his eyes, the shadows were full of regret and self-recrimination. He was not a monster. He was just lost. Lost and lonely and in desperate need of support. Which was why Rogers was there. Only he couldn't play babysitter to Barnes 24/7, so that left a job opening. Not one she would be getting paid for, obviously, but one her gut seemed keen on forcing her to take.

So, she waited to see who would come. She waited to see some new face in the neighborhood, setting up shop in her building or another adjacent to Barnes'. She waited to see any sign that somebody was there and waiting to take him out.

She should leave; she told herself that every day. She told herself that as she followed Barnes from his apartment to the gym and back. As she shadowed him at the bar and dragged his drunk ass home at closing. But she didn't leave. Instead, she stayed, keeping an eye out for the next in line.

She should let them do their job. She was one of them, after all. There was a code of conduct, she was sure. Never interfere, respect the others' process.

Instead, she killed them.

In fact, she killed three.

* * *

_There is nothing better to her than the fight._

_Nothing is better than the feeling of winning, of taking down an opponent, of watching that defeat reach their eyes, of knowing that they are small, tiny, in the palm of her hand._

_Her body moves as if it's light as air, arms swinging and legs kicking, daggers leaving fingers, slicing at and sinking into flesh, firm or soft, young or old. She has never felt more in her element than she does when she goes toe to toe against someone and walks away the winner. It wasn't always this easy, standing against Camille, but she's learned her lessons, paid her dues, and earned her keep._

_She is fire._

_Burning down her past and growing from the ashes._

_She is glory._

_Cutting down all who oppose her and standing tall as victor._

_She is Death._

_There is no cure, no reprieve, there is only surrender for all who step in front of her scope._

* * *

He was pathetic. In an oddly endearing way that she could not, for the life of her, understand.

How Rogers managed to miss that his best friend was getting drunk at the local dive and being dragged home by a complete stranger, she didn't know. She might have to put in a complaint and have his Captain status revoked. Where she would do that, she had no idea, but it was on her To-Do List.

In any case, Darcy was at the bar again, and looking mighty fine, if she did say so herself. Of course, she chose not to ask herself  _why_ she'd gone out of her way to dress up and instead chalked it up to her deserving a night to herself, even if that night was being spent babysitting ex-assassins who had a hit out on them. She sat the bar, vaguely stirring the straw in her drink, keeping an eye on him through the mirror behind the bar. He always sat in the same spot, and she couldn't blame him for it, it had the best vantage point. He was working his way through entirely too much vodka, taking up a table meant for many but only seating him. Whether it was the dangerous look about him, half drunk or not, no one dared to tell him he should give up his seat. Which she appreciated, since breaking up a bar fight would be entirely too attention-getting.

In any case, she was on her second drink, third if she included the water she drank in between, and chewing on olives to pass the time. She'd considered fiddling around with her twitter – the fact that she had a twitter account about being an assassin that people thought was a joke and not at all serious was the highlight of her life – but she knew how she got around social media and she wouldn't end up looking up from her phone until it died on her, only to realize Barnes had slipped out and was lying dead in a gutter somewhere. So no Twitter for her, or Instagram, or Tumblr. Sad was the life she led. Ooh, stale peanuts…

"Is this seat taken?"

Oh God, no.

She didn't bother looking. "Yes."

Whoever he was, he chuckled, and took the empty seat she'd definitely told him was not for him. "Sassy, I like that…"

"Like it somewhere else."

"Come on, sweetheart…"

She felt the touch a second before it actually reached her and just barely curbed the desire to break his finger before impact. But doing so would draw attention, and she couldn't afford that. So instead, she leaned away from him and turned her head, eyes narrowed. "If you wanna keep that finger, I'd suggest removing it from my person. Otherwise, I'm going to take it off at the knuckle… with my  _teeth_."

He was a little older than her, clean-shaven, wearing too much cologne and a little too enthusiastic about teeth whitening strips. He offered a slimy grin at her response. " _Kinky_."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Walk away, asshole."

His good-natured expression took an immediate dip. " _Fine_. Rude bitch," he muttered before sliding off the stool and slinking away.

Good.

He wasn't the first, or the last, to come up to her, but the later it got, the fewer people were around, slowly emptying out of the bar until there was only her, Barnes, and the bartender.

"You dragging his sorry ass home again?"

She looked up to see the bartender looking at her curiously from where he was sweeping.

"Yeah," she said, pushing off her stool. "Closing time already?"

He snorted. "Couldn't come soon enough for me."

"I hear ya." Smoothing out her dress, Darcy crossed the room to Barnes' table and knocked her knuckles against the top. "Hey, drunky, slide on over this way so I can take you home."

He looked up at her, eyes bleary and narrowed. "I know you…"

"Yeah, I bet you dream about me every night." She rolled her eyes and held a hand out. "Come on. It's time to let the nice man close up shop while you go home to sleep in a puddle of vomit."

Barnes grumbled a bit but slid out the side of the booth and dropped a heavy hand into hers. She brought it up over her shoulder and caught him around the waist as he stood, wobbling on his feet. He chuckled as he started to sink sideways, only for her to catch him, arms squeezing around his waist.

"All right, you ready?"

He stared down at her with a silly, drunken smile and dropped his face down to nuzzle in her hair. "Smell pretty."

"Better than you," she agreed with a sigh.

Clutch tucked up under her arm, she turned him and helped him toward the door. It would be an understatement to say he was kind of heavy, whether that was all of the muscle packed underneath his layered clothes or the metal arm, she wasn't sure, but it made helping him walk difficult. She was no slouch; she couldn't afford to be in her line of work, but two blocks in and he was leaning on her more than he was standing on his own.

"You gotta help me out here, buddy," she grunted, sliding her arms down a little lower and trying to get a better grip on him.

"Why're you helpin' me?" he wondered, his words slow, a little slurred.

She frowned. "If you figure that out, let me know," she muttered.

He didn't say anything, but the silence only left her more time to think, and while carrying him wasn't easy, doing it while trying to figure out her own complicated feelings on the situation made it worse.

"No, but seriously, I have no idea, okay? I—I don't do this. So don't get it in your head that I'm some altruistic, true blue hero, all right? I don't  _save_ people. I do the opposite. And you?  _You_ were supposed to be just another mark. Maybe my  _best_ mark. But instead, here we are, and one of us, I'm not pointing fingers, but one of us smells like sweat and pity, okay? I mean, it's a step up from vomit, but not by much." Letting out a huffing breath, she looked up, relieved to see they were nearly at the stairs leading up to his building. "Look, we're almost home, so sober up enough to get us there, all right?"

He grunted, but seemed to hear her, because he was standing a little taller, taking more of his weight off her shoulder, letting her lead him up and to the door. It was a bit like déjà vu, their return to his apartment and her immediate paranoia that Rogers might be around any corner, just waiting to spring out and attack her. Chances were, it wasn't Rogers but the next in line to take Barnes out. She wouldn't turn down a fight, but she wasn't exactly wearing the shoes for it.

Thankfully, nobody came leaping out of the shadows, leaving the apartment blessedly empty. She helped Barnes down the hall to his bedroom and dropped him on his bed. He reached behind him to pull off his long-sleeved, grey shirt, tossing it to the floor, leaving him in a white tanktop that did nothing to hide the physique she'd only assumed about until that moment. Her mouth went a little dry and she turned on her heel to walk away.

"Hey, where you goin'?" he said, laying back on his back and tracking her with his half-closed eyes.

"Water and Tylenol, take it easy," she replied, crossing the hall to snoop around in the medicine cabinet. She found a bottle of Tylenol stuffed near the back, the seal still on it. She popped the cap and poured a few out into her hand before closing it and putting it back. Making her way into the kitchen, she poured a tall glass of water and finally returned to his bedroom.

He was curled on his side, arm wrapped around his pillow, dozing, when she took a seat on the edge of his bed.

"Come on," she said, motioning the water at him. "You're gonna wanna drink this. All of it." She put the Tylenol on his bedside table and told him, "That's for later, when your hangover hits you with a vengeance, all right?"

He hummed absently and took the glass from her, tipping it back and downing it all. When he was done, he licked his lips and passed the glass back. She stood, walking back to the bathroom to refill it and came back to put it by the Tylenol.

She looked him over, his face buried in his pillow now, and bit her lip. This felt so weird. She'd never been the type of person who took care of others. She'd gotten good at only looking out for herself, at survival, so she wasn't sure where this concerned streak was coming from. Childhood? She could remember a time, vaguely, before her father died, where she used to wrap her dad's scrapes, new or old, with toilet paper, closing her make-shift bandages with stickers. Something warm stabbed at her chest, spreading across her skin in a way it hadn't in too long. Absently, still lost in memories of her dad, she reached for the laces of Barnes' shoes and undid them, quick and easy, pulling the laces loose before she tugged the boots down off his feet and propped them by his night stand. Reaching for the blanket underneath him, she gave it a tug and said, "Lift up."

He shifted, pushing his flesh arm down into the bed to lift his upper half off and she yanked the blanket down. With a little more maneuvering, she had it up and over him, but there was no way in hell she was tucking him in. She had to draw the line somewhere. Hands on her hips, she stared down at him a moment, let out a sigh at her behavior, and shook her head, turning on her heel to leave. A tug at her dress stopped her, however, and she looked down to see metal fingers gripping red fabric. When he rubbed his thumb over it, she wondered if he could feel it; if the metal had sensors for that kind of thing. Her gaze wandered up the length of his arm, metal plates that seemed to mimic his flesh arm as best as it could. Did he resent it, she wondered, or had it become so much a part of him that he never even noticed anymore?

"You wanna touch it?"

Her eyes raised, meeting his, and he stared back at her. "Is that a come on?"

His mouth twitched. "Do you want it to be?"

She frowned, but turned to face him better and took a seat on the edge of his bed. His hand rested against her knee, atop the fabric of her dress. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers resting against his metal knuckles. They weren't cold like she'd expected, not warm either, just neutral. She dragged her fingers up the lengths of his and watched his hand turn over, showing her his palm. She walked the tips of her fingers down it, feeling his own brush against her wrist. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, firm and unforgiving beneath her touch, and then her fingers spread, sliding up his forearm, feeling each ridge of the interlocking metal pieces. "Can you feel me?" she wondered, her brow furrowed curiously as she dragged her fingers over the inside of his elbow. She was ticklish there; she wondered if he was.

"Pressure," he told her, readjusting his head on his pillow as he held his other arm out for her.

She reached over, mimicking her hand on his bionic arm with the other. When he jolted a little at her touch on his inner elbow, she smiled. Scraping her nails lightly down his flesh forearm, she watched that jolt turn into a shiver, and bit her lip as she swept them right back up to his bicep.

He turned over onto his back so she had better access and she shifted up the bed a little. Her fingers stretched in an effort to wrap around his biceps, but weren't quite long enough. Firm and warm, one more than the other, she dragged her thumb over the dips and ridges of definition. His bionic arm gave way to skin at his shoulder, flesh puckered and red from being melded to metal. He tensed a little as she touched the edge of metal, but only seemed to watch her, her face instead of her progress. She smoothed her palms up the over the hill and left them on the slope of his shoulders, squeezing gently. She didn't realize how close she was until she felt one of his fingers twirl a tendril of her hair around it and she realized she was leaning over him, both too far and too close. Under different circumstances, she would take him off guard, go for the jugular, but it was her who felt off-kilter and distracted.

She raised her eyes to meet his, a pale blue that weren't as glazed as she'd thought they were. He watched the ends of hair skim the top of his metal hand, something wistful on his face, like he wished he could feel it. But then he caught it between his fingers and brought it up, brushing her hair against his cheek like a butterfly kiss. It was a tender action, filled with something she'd never experienced in her life. She'd been with men since Carl, but it was always fast, quick and dirty, often with her clothes on so she could get up and leave as soon as it was over. It was fucking, pure and simple. Or maybe not so 'pure' at all, but the point was the same. The boyfriends she'd had pre-Carl had been good guys, funny and sweet and smart. They talked music and comic books and last week's homework with her. The men she slept with now were bar hook-ups, disposable, chosen purely because she thought they'd give her what she wanted.  _Release_. But this… This felt different.

"What's your name?" he asked her, raising his eyes to meet hers.

"What's yours?" she hedged.

"Bucky," he said, but then his lips curled up in an expression that was all too bitter. "Or James. Or Barnes. Or Yasha. Or whatever the hell you wanna call me…"

She stared at him searchingly. "What do you want me to call you?"

He released her hair and reached for her face. Her spine tightened, tensed, expecting rough fingers gripping her throat or pulling at her hair, yanking her close or shoving her away. Instead, it was metal fingers tracing the arch of her cheek. "I'm still figurin' it out myself," he murmured.

"So why don't we toss the names for a while? Until you figure that out."

He hummed, his forefinger dragging down the length of her nose, until he tapped the end, his mouth settling into something void of that old bitterness and vaguely mirthful. "I like how you think, doll."

"That's probably the tequila talking…"

He touched her bottom lip then, his thumb resting against it while his palm spread over her cheek. "I dream about you sometimes… Girl with the coffee. Turned girl at the bar."

"Yeah?" She snorted. "Do I wanna know what those dreams are like?"

But he was serious as he stared up at her. "Safe," he said, his eyes turning up to stare unseeing at the ceiling. "And free."

Darcy gazed down at him a long moment, her heart shifting in her chest, a twisting in her stomach that was filled with the kind of regret she hadn't felt since she was eleven years old and she'd stolen a candy bar from the store down the street from her house. She'd felt so bad that she couldn't even eat it after, thinking about the store owner and how nice he was to her. It was hard to think she was even the same person, that the girl who'd felt so guilty about an Oh Henry bar could kill people without flinching. And here was a man, telling her he dreamed of safety and freedom and saw her face.

"You might need to lay off the sauce." She finally released his shoulders and sat back on the bed, shoving up to her feet as she went. She grabbed her clutch off the floor and tucked it under her arm before she smoothed out the fabric of her dress. "Drink plenty of fluids and get some sleep," she told him, before she started for the door.

"Hey," he called.

She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder.

He stared at her a moment, searching her face, his head propped up on one arm behind him on his pillow. "Am I gonna see you again?" His voice was hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he should ask.

Her lips pursed, brow furrowed, and she said, "You really shouldn't want to."

With that, she walked away, and told herself that was the last time she would talk to him.

She could keep him safe from a distance; it would be better for all involved.

* * *

_The first guy Darcy sleeps with is Phillip. He tells her to call him 'Lip' and she finds it oddly endearing. He's smart and a little wild and he kisses her like the world begins and ends with her mouth. She thinks she understands the hype about love and sex because the way his fingers dance across her skin makes her feel like fire is licking its way from the inside out and the ache between her legs hurts in the most amazing way._

_There's no drama with Lip. They have their time together and she likes it. In the beginning, it's all about fun, about enjoying herself. She falls in love with the way he says her name and how he reaches for her hand. But love fizzles and she's young and they go their separate ways on good terms. She remembers him fondly._

_Lip._

_Their's wasn't a love for the ages, but it suited her just fine. It's her first taste, and she's naïve enough to think it'll always be like that. To believe that one day she'll meet someone she loves passionately and infinitely and that it will never fade, never fizzle, never leave them. She has a few other boyfriends, good guys all of them, and she thinks it's all just a ladder, and when she reaches the top, she'll find 'the one.' That special guy that will complement her in every way, make up for her shortcomings and fall short where she stands out._

_And then Carl comes into her life. And love… There's no more room for love in a heart as cold and empty as hers._

_It's just as well._

_Who wants to love a killer?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to put out. it was finished, but I didn't have much time to edit it. for anyone interested, I also have the next chapter to my other assassin!darcy story, " **[I've come to burn your kingdom down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1791100/chapters/3839623)** ," finished. I'll be editing and posting it today.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! I really love writing the scenes between darcy and bucky; their dynamic is very interesting.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a review; they're my lifeblood!
> 
> \- **Lee | Fina**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **polyvore** : [[Darcy](http://www.polyvore.com/darcy_assassin/set?id=126934297&lid=3793384)] ([collection](http://www.polyvore.com/glory_gore_go_hand_in/collection?id=3793384))  
>  **faceclaim** : [darcy lewis & bucky barnes](http://sarcasticfina.tumblr.com/post/90617144532) | [camille](http://media.tumblr.com/c49c31235d5371116e7f9624e11310d6/tumblr_n7cpp2yuss1qhgqv2o3_r2_500.jpg)  
>  **music** : [8 tracks](http://8tracks.com/bitchface-mcgee/these-violent-delights) (not mine)

**IV.**

Darcy didn't often dream, or she didn't remember her dreams, so far as she could tell. But she started to. She blamed it entirely on Barnes. Him and his wistful talk about freedom and safety. She didn't dream of him, though. Not at first.

In the beginning, it was just laughter; the kind that snuck up on her, ringing in her ears like a whisper of a memory. Distant, just out of reach, but resonating all the same. She woke in the morning, confused, disappointed, and flopped back down, head buried in her pillow and wondered if she wanted to chase the sound back to its beginning or if it was smarter to forget it entirely. Whether she chose to or not, she wasn't certain, but she drifted off again, and the laughter came. Childlike and young, full of giddy excitement. And a picture formed, fuzzy around the edges, bright with sunlight and green with long grass tickling her legs.

She was in her yard. Back home. Walking just out of reach, watching herself, her hair dark and curly, springing in every direction, running around, just out of reach of her daddy's arms as he chased her. And her mother, looking so young and carefree, sat on the stairs leading up to the porch, a glass of lemonade on her knee, condensation dripping down onto her skin. She was smiling, her chin perched in her hand, watching her family run in circles. Darcy, the little girl version of herself, couldn't be older than six, and she wasn't nearly as fast as her father made her think she was. She had to take three steps for his every one, but he let her believe that she was just too quick for him to catch. Her laugher lifted up into the air, dancing on a warm breeze, and blew right past her, collecting on her skin and in her ears and trapped in the much more tamed curls of her present hair.

Innocent. That was what she was. What they all were. Her. Her family.

It was a time long past, almost forgotten, and when she woke again, it left her feeling empty.

She was not innocent. She might have the memories, she might remember her parents' faces back when things were good, but she wasn't there anymore, they weren't those people anymore. Her innocence was dead. The laughter had faded. It was stupid of her to try to hold onto that. And for what? Why? Because some man told her he dreamt of her?

She snorted, shoving up off her bed. She needed a shower and coffee and a nice big dose of reality. If he was dreaming of her, then somebody should clue him in that it should be a nightmare, not a fairytale. She wasn't the princess, but the dragon. There were no pearls, only scales. No diamonds, only fire. She would not be who he strived for in the end, who he fought for. She was the enemy. And just because he didn't get the message didn't mean she should buy into it, too.

Sure, she was saving him, sticking around to keep an eye out for whoever was supposed to take her place, but that didn't make her a hero. In the end, she would still be her, still be the woman behind the scope, the first person suggested when someone needed a high-roller hit. She was the best and she had earned her place through blood and bone.

So no more dreams, she decided. Not for her or him.

She would keep her distance, he would move on, and she would do what she did best.

Kill and survive.

* * *

_She has a recurring nightmare when she's a little girl._

_She isn't the best swimmer and one summer her parents take her out to the lake. They tell her not to go out too far._

_"Only up to your bellybutton, Darcy," her mom says, and she nods._

_But then she's standing in the lake, squishing the soft mud up under her toes, and she wades a little deeper. She sees the other kids swimming farther out and she thinks she can, too. It starts out okay. Her mom taught her how to doggy-paddle and she was good at it, better than the other kids her age. But the further she gets the more tired she feels, and her chin keeps dipping low into the water, enough that it catches in her nose and makes her sputter. But she keeps trying, because she's stubborn, and the others kids don't seem so far ahead. She's small though and her arms just sort of give out on her, slowing down until they stop completely, and she slips under. She pops back up but not for long, and then she's under again, choking, sinking._

_Her mom saves her, an arm around her stomach, hauling her up out of the water and dragging her back to shore. Darcy coughs up what feels like half the lake, but she's okay. She cries and sniffles and her mom scolds her in between hugging her so tight it almost hurts._

_That night she has her first nightmare about drowning. Her mother doesn't get to her in time or doesn't come at all and she sinks like a stone, right down to the bottom, staring up at the retreating sun until it's dark, little air bubbles leaving her, floating up to the surface, until there's no air left in her lungs. She wakes up crying, calling out, shouting for help, and her mom rubs her back, shushing her soothingly, until she falls back asleep._

_The nightmare lingers though, enough that she doesn't get much sleep for a long time. Eventually, they come less and less, until it's mostly a memory, with a few hiccups each summer._

_But she's not much of a swimmer even as a teenager. She sunbathes and wades up to her knees, but avoids going much deeper. And even later, when her hands are wet with blood instead of water, it's drowning that scares her._

_She didn't know there were other ways to drown, but she learns._

* * *

Darcy wondered sometimes, what he meant. Free and safe. What happened in his dreams that he felt that way? What were they doing? What could  _she_ be doing to evoke that feeling in someone else? It just didn't fit with the image of herself she had in her head. She wasn't what people thought of when they wanted safety. She was the opposite. She was death and danger and very, very  _un_ safe. And sure, he didn't know that, exactly, but shouldn't he? He was the Winter Soldier; shouldn't he feel that about her? Some instinct or something? Didn't he know she was the wrong person for him to be getting wrapped up in?

It bothered her.

Where were his survival skills? How the hell was she supposed to keep him safe if he was so damn willing to befriend assassins?

She lasted a week and a half of just watching him from afar, but then, like an addict, she needed a fix.

So, she took a walk to the coffee shop she'd visited before, the one he passed on the way to Goldie's Gym. And she waited, picking at the cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup as she leaned against a red brick wall, eyeing the patrons seated at wrought iron tables or on benches in the square. It was part habit and part because she'd felt eyes on her for a while now. Whoever was following Barnes was close and she wanted to see who it was they'd hired to replace her.

She spotted Barnes walking down the sidewalk then, his duffle bag hitched over his shoulder, hood up over his head, face bowed, and one hand tucked in the pocket of his jacket. She would be woefully disappointed if he wasn't holding a weapon in there, she decided. Because so far, his awareness to incoming danger was really worrying her.

He looked up and, while she knew she should, she didn't look away, instead letting him stare right at her. She'd wondered, more times than she could count, if he recognized her when he wasn't drunk off his ass on vodka.

She got her answer when he pivoted left and started toward her.

Standing a little taller, she raised her chin, eyeing him curiously. Would he confront her? Ask her who she was? Why she was always around?

He came to a stop in front of her, his lips pursed, and looked a little more wary than she was used to seeing him when he was this close. Of course, he didn't have hours of copious drinking behind him to take the edge off. She didn't miss the glazed look in his eyes, but she did miss how relaxed he usually was.

He readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, dropped his gaze to the coffee in her hand, and then looked up at her, his brow furrowed. "You busy?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Just holding this building up with my back. It's a tough job, but somebody had to do it."

His lips twitched and he glanced away.

"Why? You need a sparring buddy?" she asked, looking at his bag.

"You box?"

She shrugged. "I do a lot of things."

His head tipped curiously before he nodded. "If you're up to it... There's a gym around the corner. Empty most of the time."

Pushing off the wall, she considered asking him why he seemed to think asking a veritable stranger to join him was a good idea, but considering the fact that he had an assassin tailing him, keeping close was better than reminding him to be more paranoid. So, she joined him as he backed up, and took up the space at his side. She'd scoped out Goldie's Gym before, getting a lay of the land while he wasn't around. He wasn't kidding when he said it was mostly empty; she knew he and Rogers were about the only two who dropped in regularly, and she was pretty sure that was equal parts nostalgia and wanting to be left alone.

Barnes led her right inside, dropping his duffel bag to the floor by the punching bag and stripping off his zip-up hoodie before he grabbed out a pair of gloves from his bag.

"So you've boxed before?" he asked her, wanting clarification.

Darcy eyed him as she circled the bag. It was old, patched up in places, but still sturdy. "My dad boxed. When he was younger, before he joined the ARMY."

"He served?"

She nodded.

"What's he do now?"

Shrugging, she said, "Rots, mostly. He died a while back."

He stared at her a moment and then nodded shortly. "Sorry."

She made her way back toward him, hands on her hips. "You gonna show me how it's done?" she asked, her voice ripe with sarcasm.

Barnes shook his head. "Was looking forward to seeing you in action…" He held the gloves out for her. "Might not be a perfect fit… My hands're bigger than yours."

Before reaching for the gloves, she pulled her sweater off so it wouldn't hinder her movements and tossed it toward her bag. Then she reached out to take one glove from him and slid it on her hand before she held the other out for him to help her with. When she felt good about the fit, she knocked them together and then turned toward the bag. "Am I just showing off here or should I be downplaying my skills so you can feel superior?"

His mouth curled up on one side. "I wouldn't ask for your best if I didn't want it."

She raised an eyebrow at that but turned to face the bag, readjusting her feet and raising her fists up. She jabbed at the bag at first, starting out slow, finding her center, getting comfortable with the gloves and the movements of her arms. It was easy to get lost in it. Darcy loved training. It wasn't as good as a real fight, with a flesh and blood opponent that moved and ducked and struck back. But it was good enough. She could feel herself building up a sweat and wished she'd dressed more for the occasion instead of her jeans and tank top. She was glad she'd taken her sweater off, though, as she wiped her forehead with her arm.

He was staring at her. When she turned her head, she found him standing just off to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his brow furrowed and his head tilted. "You're dropping your elbow," he said, stepping forward. He reached over and touched his fingers to her right elbow. "And you're using your left too much; makes your right side vulnerable."

Darcy dropped her gaze to his fingers, still tucked under her elbow. "Am I getting into a fight soon that I need to know that for, coach?"

He slid his hand down under her forearm and raised it up. "It's important to know your weaknesses, right? You don't always plan for a fight. Sometimes one sneaks up on you."

Darcy watched as he pulled the glove free of her hand and tucked it under his arm before he focused on her fingers. As she flexed them, he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles in small, light circles.

"The one you don't use as much, the side you don't protect enough, that's the one you should focus on. Because if somebody ever catches on, they'll exploit it, and it doesn't matter how much you try and throw your right hand up, they're going to expect it." He brought her hand up and rested it on his shoulder, his fingers dragging down the top of her forearm. "Once you acknowledge it's a weakness, that you've got a hole in your defense, then you can do something about it… Awareness, that's what it boils down to." His fingers skimmed the inside of her arm and she shivered. His eyes raised then, catching hers, and his mouth tilted in a faint smile.

Her gut tightened and she bit back the words that stung her tongue, wanting to tell him that he was weak there, too. She'd felt him flinch when she touched him in that same spot the last time they were together, in the dark comfort of his room. But she didn't, because it was a flimsy excuse and because he looked so…  _relaxed_. Gone was the glaze of alcohol from his eyes, the slur of his words, but the hand reaching out for her was still present. He still touched her, still brought her in close, and she shouldn't like it, she knew she shouldn't, but she did.

A sudden clanging noise grabbed their attention then and Barnes reacted instinctively, twisting abruptly, standing in front of her like a shield, his hand reaching back, landing on her hip. His shoulders were tense and his chin was tilted forward, the whole of his body was strung tight like a bow string, ready for attack, ready to destroy, and it was… gratifying. From the moment she'd met him, he had been skulky, yes, but mostly harmless. This was the first time she was seeing something of the soldier; the man who could, and would, destroy whatever was put in his path to reach his endgame.

The shuffling of feet drew their eyes before a man, who couldn't be younger than 70, ambled into the gym, muttering to himself, jangling keys in his hand. The owner? she wondered. Regardless, he wasn't a threat. He nodded at them distractedly before climbing the rickety metal stairs up to the office, leaving them to their solitude once more.

Darcy watched him go before turning her attention back to the man in front of her. Barnes' fingers flexed on her hip before he released her and turned back around to face her. His shoulders relaxed only a fraction and she couldn't help but wonder if that brief moment of panic had released a rush of adrenaline through him. She wondered too if he'd been hoping for a fight, if the idea had made him excited, or if it had rubbed him wrong. But she couldn't read signs of either emotion on his face, instead he pulled the glove out from under his arm and asked, "You wanna try again, see if we can get that elbow up?"

She stared at the glove a moment, wondering if she should push for more information or go with the flow. Did he react that way because it was instinct or because he knew somebody was following him? Had he fought at all since he partnered back up with Rogers, or was he only working out to relieve stress and stay in shape? More importantly, would he really fight if it came to it, or would he rather run? Because she'd known former assassins, people who walked away from the game and vowed never to pick up a weapon again, never to use those skills no matter the situation. Was he one of them? Or was eager to get back into the ring?

But he wouldn't answer those questions and, with things as they were, he wouldn't understand why she was asking them. What they had was tentative at best, at least without alcohol to take the edge off of things. So she didn't burst the thin bubble they'd created; instead, she nodded, holding her hand out for him to slide the glove on. But even as she turned back to face the punching bag with him beside her, telling her to get her arm up, to use her right hand more, her mind still wandered.

She couldn't help but remember how he moved to defend her. How he expected an outside threat instead of the one standing right behind him. How he chose to protect her. It was silly, it was…  _ridiculous_. Because she was the one saving him. She was the one looking out for him. She wouldn't call herself a hero, but if anybody was the damsel in this situation, it wasn't her. But that didn't change facts. When he thought a threat was imminent, he put himself between it and her, and that said a lot more about him, about  _them_ , than she expected it to.

They continued with her boxing until he decided she was blocking better and utilizing her other arm. It rankled her a bit that he was giving her tips, not because he was wrong, but because he was right.

She was sweating more than she wanted to be, but it felt good, energy zipping through her that had been far too muted before. While she enjoyed her job, sometimes laying low for weeks and observing from afar meant she didn't get to move around like she was used to. She did yoga in her apartment, but she had to keep close to her target, aware of anything else that might come creeping out of the shadows.

Barnes handed her his water bottle from inside his duffel bag and eyed her as she knocked it back, guzzling down as much as she could without pausing for air.

"You, uh, busy after this?" he wondered, tracking her tongue as she licked her lips.

Darcy shrugged. "Not really. Why?"

He looked away from her, his eyes drifting over various pieces of workout equipment. "Kinda hungry, could use some company."

She raised an eyebrow, staring at his profile a moment. "Anything specific?"

"I make a good spaghetti," he said, his gaze finally drifting back to her, intense and heavy as he searched her face.

Her mouth turned up on at the corner. "Boxing and spaghetti, is that how you get all the girls?"

He let out a quiet laugh under his breath. "Why? Is it effective?"

Darcy bit her lip, shaking her head a little. "I like spaghetti," she said.

Nodding, he said, "Okay. Uh, I don't think I have everything at the apartment. You mind coming to the grocery store?"

"Sure." Tipping the water bottle back, she sprayed her mouth full again and swished it around, swallowing it down and then capping the bottle, tossing it back.

Catching it, he put it back in his bag and then looked up at her.

"So? You wanna show me what you're made of, Mean Machine, or do you want to get straight to the spaghetti and meatballs?"

Mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, he grabbed up the boxing gloves and slid them on. "Who said anything about meatballs?"

"Hey, if you're going to make me spaghetti, go big or go home." Darcy stepped out of the way and took up a position to his right for better observation. She would be lying if she said she wasn't looking forward to seeing him do some serious damage to the bag.

"Yeah? You gonna help me cook?" he wondered, getting into position.

"Why help when I can happily watch you slog away while I put an unhealthy dent in a bottle of red wine?"

He chuckled under his breath, but didn't argue, instead putting his full focus on the bag.

And she realized, watching him move, watching him focus and decimate the bag in front of him, that the fighter was still in him. She shivered, biting her lip, watching the flex of his arm, the play of muscle over his shoulders. Even his footwork was impressive. In a weird way, the whole thing was beautiful to her. She could admire his strength, the instinctual movements of his body, the predator that lived just under his skin.

Suddenly, keeping her distance felt like a very remote possibility.

* * *

_Camille isn't happy when she finds out Darcy didn't kill Eleanor. That's an understatement._

_Camille is furious._

_She paces from one end of the training room to the other, her expression dark. "I sent you to do a_ job _."_

_"And I did one." Darcy raises her chin stubbornly. "Just… not the one we were paid for."_

_"We weren't paid yet, Darcy," Camille yells, tossing her hands up. "You killed him before he could make the wire transfer. And even ignoring the fact that you cost me money, you_ killed  _a customer. How do you think that reflects on me? Hm? Who is going to trust an assassin that turns on their employer?"_

_"It wasn't right," she tells her, her voice shaking a little. "Eleanor is a good person. The things she's doing, that she wants, it's—"_

_"I don't care if someone wants you to assassinate the next Mother Teresa. Your job is to pull the trigger, not to play judge and jury on whether people deserve to die. I did not teach you to think, I taught you to_ act _." Camille crosses the room then, heels clicking, and stops just in front of Darcy. She reaches out, catching Darcy's chin, raising it so they're eye to eye. "Listen to me, Darcy. Listen very,_ very  _closely…"_

_She stares at Camille, her mentor's eyes fierce and void of any kindness._

_"You are only relevant as long as you do as you're told." Camille stares at her searchingly, her brows narrowing. "Do you know what you do to a dog that doesn't listen…? Hm?"_

_Darcy shakes her head minutely._

_"You have two options. Obedience school, or get a new dog." Her nails, long and sharp, dig into Darcy's chin painfully before she shoves her back, making her stumble._

_Darcy catches herself on a table, her hand tripping over a few blades, feeling them cut into her skin._

_"Now which is it, Darcy? Are you going to obey, or do I need to put you down?"_

_She stares at the floor for a long moment, an itch at the back of her throat that tastes like bitter regret. When she looks up, she stares Camille in the eye and says, "I'll obey."_

_"Good. Because if I find out you hesitated again, I'll put a bullet in you myself."_

_Darcy watches Camille walk away, tall and regal and completely in control. Her shaking fingers curl around a knife eagerly, but Darcy doesn't lift it, doesn't throw it, center to the back, like a part of her desperately wants to. Instead, she lets Camille walk away and she turns around, taking up those same knives and throwing them at a target. She trains until she's exhausted, until she's so worn out she isn't thinking of all the ways she could kill the only person who cared about her anymore._

_And she does care, doesn't she?_

_She has to…_

_She's all Darcy has._

* * *

Grocery shopping felt oddly domestic; normal in a way that was abnormal to Darcy's life as it had been for a long time. In the penthouse she called home, she had a service that delivered her food, that kept the fridge and cupboards stocked whenever she was in town. But she moved around a lot, wherever her job took her, so she was used to living off of take-out a lot of the time, or picking something up on the way to whatever apartment or room she was renting at the time. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a home cooked meal that she shared with someone else.

Darcy stood on the end of the shopping cart while Barnes pushed it.

"I used to do this as a kid," she told him, reaching for what they needed on the shelves and tossing it inside. They had a list of what they were looking for; cans first, then noodles, spices, parmesan cheese, vegetables, and a loaf of French bread. He'd muttered what he needed under his breath when they walked through the doors and she'd catalogued it in her head. The wine they would have to pick up elsewhere. Since the grocery store wasn't far from his apartment and there was a liquor store in between the two, they would have to make a small pit stop.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking over at her as she tossed a few cans of stewed tomatoes into the cart.

"Mm-hmm. My dad did most of the cooking; mom worked two jobs. So dad would take me along with him. I was supposed to remember what we needed and keep him out of the junk food aisle…" She smiled to herself, faint and fond. "Never worked though. Keeping him out of the junk food, I mean. He loved that stuff. Chocolate was his vice… Mine too, now that I think about it."

"Chocolate's good. Better than some of the other stuff out there," he said, nodding his chin toward the canned mushrooms.

She grabbed a few down and tossed them in with the others. "What about you? You got any shopping stories?"

He shrugged. "Didn't have much money growing up. Mom did most of the shopping. We boiled everything… Wasn't a lot of flavor."

Grimacing, she shook her head. "Well, there's gonna be a lot of flavor tonight. Once we hit the spice aisle, you're going to have to restrain me."

His mouth twitched. "Yeah?"

She nodded seriously. "Absolutely."

Leaving the canned vegetables, they went down every aisle after it so he could pick up a few things other than just dinner items. Darcy added some of her own as they went; necessities like deodorant, toothpaste, a bottle of shampoo since hers was running low.

He eyed the bottle curiously, boasting a citrus clean scent. "You smell like wildflowers," he said, as if she'd picked the wrong bottle and regretted the idea her usual scent might change.

"Yeah, that's my perfume." She plucked her shirt off her chest and leaned down to give herself a sniff. "Although, right now, I probably just smell like sweat."

He hummed, turning the cart into the meat section and stopping in front of the ground beef.

Darcy hopped off the end of the cart and walked over to a display boasting 2-for-1 bottles of Caesar dressing. "We should have a salad," she told him. "Get some romaine lettuce and croutons. Tastes better with crumbled bacon and parmesan shavings, but even the basics are good."

Looking between two packs of meat, he nodded. "Sure. Throw it in. Whatever you want."

Grabbing both bottles, because a deal was a deal, she put them into the cart and then walked over to see what was stumping him in the meat department. But as she got closer, she realized it wasn't the meat he was looking at; it was the reflective surface of the wall. There was a woman, just at the mouth of the cereal aisle, picking through a few things, nothing of real interest since her eyes periodically darted in Barnes' direction.

She was pretty, tall and blonde with a willowy frame and bright blue eyes. A college student, by the looks of it. The way she stood, relaxed, but keenly attuned, told Darcy she wasn't an enemy, just an admirer. She wasn't the first one either; there'd been a number, eyes following him as they walked down the street, appreciation male and female gazes following him as he moved down the aisles.

Mouth turned up faintly, Darcy looked back at him, but his attention had transferred from the pretty college girl back to her, staring much more obviously.

"If you wanna get her number, I'll man the cart."

He raised an eyebrow.

"She's clearly interested…" Darcy glanced over from the corner of her eye.

College Girl was looking Barnes over, top to bottom, biting her lip.

"Can't fault her taste…" Turning back to him, Darcy reached over, giving his unzipped hoodie a tug. "You've got that whole broody, intimidating, bad boy/good lover look going on…"

He licked his lips, slow and wholly suggestive. "Just good?"

She stared at his mouth entirely too long, but, in her defense, he had a pair of very distracting lips. "Can't say. No first-hand experience, personally."

He hummed, turning his head a little, to see the other girl. "You think she boxes?"

Darcy's brow furrowed. "Is that a requirement when you're asking a woman out?"

He looked back at her from the corner of his eyes and half-smiled, looking entirely too mischievous and lighthearted for her liking. He turned then, dropping both packages of hamburger into the cart. "It is now," he said, before pushing off, continuing toward the bread aisle.

Darcy stared after him a long moment. She hadn't been jealous. She and Barnes weren't anything, really. There was something between them, yes, but was she even interested in exploring that? She'd already decided that her job was to keep alive, not to sleep with him. That didn't mean it wasn't tempting. It was. But she had no claim on him. If he wanted to see other people – smart pretty college girls included – then she wouldn't so much as bat an eyelash. But that wasn't the case here. Instead, he was making statements, he was suggesting he wanted her, and not just to spar or share a homemade pot of spaghetti with.

He was making his intentions known. She should probably shut them down, shut  _him_ down from that line of thought. It would only make things complicated, messier than they already were.

Instead, she caught up to him, walking beside him instead of standing on the end of the cart, letting her shoulder brush his. This time, it wasn't him reaching for her, it was her purposely invading his space .

She let herself get close and she hoped she wouldn't get burned.

* * *

_After Eleanor, there are a handful of people she hesitates to kill. She turns down the jobs when they come in, walks away when it doesn't feel right. But the second time she gets a name that she can't just ignore, she takes a different approach._

_She's on her own, no Camille to tell her what to do, and the name that crosses her screen makes her pause. She agrees to take it on with the mandatory three week probationary period. But she already has her mind made up long before then._

_His apartment isn't easy to get into; in fact, it's really damn difficult. But Darcy's a professional, if nothing else, and eventually, she makes her way inside. She waits for him in his home office, the light bulbs removed from the lamps so that when he steps inside and hits the switch, the room is left in shadows._

_He hesitates, and she can see the moment it registers that it's not just a burned out bulb._

_"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead," she says._

_"Are you boasting or is that supposed to make me feel better?"_

_"I can sing a lullaby, warm up some milk for you, if that'll help soothe your nerves."_

_He lets out a quiet chuckle, but she knows he's already palmed his gun. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew something was off from the moment he stepped into his apartment and had already alerted the right people. It was better to operate on the idea that she was on a time limit than to underestimate him._

_"I'm only here to talk," she assures._

_"I'm sure that's what all assassins say."_

_Darcy rolls her eyes. "I'll take a survey at our next meeting, but I'd like to think I'm unique in this case."_

_"Excuse me if I'm not convinced… You are standing in a dark room holding a gun, aren't you?"_

_"Two guns," she agrees._

_He nods faintly. "Is this the part where I calmly walk inside and take a seat at my desk? Listen to you wax poetic about some reason or another that I've won the assassination lottery?"_

_"I'm sure you already know why you won… Someone like you makes a lot of enemies out of the wrong people."_

_"Or the right people, depending on which side you're standing on. Better my enemy than my friend." He steps into the room then, crossing to his desk, taking a seat just like he'd joked of earlier. He looks relaxed, calm even, and he's good at making it look sincere._

_She knows better._

_"I won't say I wasn't hired to take you out, we both know I'd be lying. I will say that I'm going to turn the job down."_

_"So, what, professional courtesy to let me know? Should I thank you?"_

_Her lips twitch. "Consider it a head's up. I've got two weeks before I tell them I won't be taking the hit, after that, they'll hire someone else. So, do with that what you will." Turning on her heel, she starts toward the door, her footsteps silent._

_"You're not going to leave your calling card?" he wonders. "Or is that reserved for a job well done?"_

_She pauses, turning her head toward him, and raises a curious eyebrow._

_"The ashes. A small pile of them," he clarifies. "You leave them beside a kill, don't you?" He nods, needing no reply. "That's the codename we have for you. Ashes… There's some speculation that they come from the childhood home you burned down when you were sixteen, but… I don't think you stuck around long enough to take them with you. My money's on the metaphor."_

_Her heart thuds in her chest as she turns her whole body to face him. "And what would you know about that?" she wonders._

_"About you, or the fire?"_

_She doesn't answer, staring at his shadowed face, wondering how the tables turned so completely._

_"Darcy Lewis, codename, as I said, Ashes. Disappeared when she was sixteen, killed her step-father and left the house to burn behind her. Dad died when she was twelve; heart attack; it was quick. You were the one that found him, dead in the gun shed out back, weren't you?"_

_She remains quiet, her hands shaking._

_"Your mother, she survived a while longer. Remarried three years later; reports of domestic violence from the neighbors, not enough to arrest him, though. A few calls to CPS, some concerns that the step-father was… abusing you, but no evidence. A lot of speculation though, about what happened to push you to it…"_

_Darcy blinks quickly as her eyes burn._

_"Your mother was picked up at the Bingo hall; she was hysterical when they told her what happened. Had to be sedated. Spent almost three months in the psych ward, had to move in with her cousin after… Seven years later, she's hospitalized for a failing liver. Too much drinking; trying to numb the pain the cousin said. Two husbands dead, a daughter missing…_

_"Funny thing though, nurses check on her one night, she's fine. Dying from liver failure, but otherwise, fine. They check on her again in the morning, however, and she's dead… Her machines were unplugged so they wouldn't alert anybody and the autopsy done later said there was signs of a struggle… That she suffocated." He raises a hand, motioning it around, as he says, "Pillow over her face. Didn't take long. She was frail, sick, in a lot of pain… It was probably instinctive, the way she fought, even though she wanted to die… Didn't she?"_

_A tear slips down Darcy's cheek and she takes a step back into the room, vibrating with her anger. "She begged me," she whispers hoarsely. "Looked me right in the eye and told me she couldn't live with herself, that she_ hated _herself for what she did, for what she let him do to me…" She sucks in air, her voice trembling. "She told me it hurt, that she didn't want to feel it anymore. So yeah, I put that pillow over her head, I kept it there until she stopped thrashing around. And maybe some part of me liked it, felt it was justified, but I still cried over that woman. I still loved her. Even after everything she did, everything she_ didn't  _do…" She swipes the back of her hand over her cheek. "You wanna judge me, you go ahead, but it doesn't matter what my file says, you don't know_ shit  _about who I am."_

_"I know you don't operate on the same level as some of your… coworkers," he tells her. "Eleanor Greene ring a bell?"_

_She stares at him through narrowed eyes, sniffing and wiping at her face._

_"You saved her life. Killed the guy who hired you take her out." He stares at her searchingly, sitting forward in his seat._

_"You wanna give me a medal?" she mocks._

_He smiles faintly, a humorless, lopsided expression, and clasps his hands together on his desk. "Have you ever thought about how your skills might be used in a more marketable way?"_

_Darcy scoffs. "They're plenty marketable now, in case you haven't noticed."_

_"You're not wrong," he admits. "I'm up to date on everyone you've personally handled. And the list is…" He blows out a breath. "Impressive, to say the least."_

_"I hear a 'but' coming…"_

_"But… I've noticed something, and I'm sure, eventually, someone else will too."_

_She frowns. "Which is?"_

_He pauses, and she's entirely sure it's just to annoy her. "One of these days, someone's going to notice your hesitation to kill good people," he finally tells her, the weight of his words all too heavy. "Morality is not for assassins. People want their killers to do their job and never ask questions. You, Miss Lewis… I bet you ask a lot of questions."_

_Her lips purse, but she can't disagree._

_"So when the day comes that you realize this is not the business for you… call me. I think we can work out something mutually beneficial."_

_"What? No card?"_

_He smiles, and this times it's a little more sincere. "I'm positive you could find me anytime you wanted to."_

_She salutes him mockingly and turns on her heel. "Nice chat, Coulson. Thanks for the job offer, but I think I'll stay busy enough in my neck of the woods."_

_"We have benefits," he calls after her as she walks away._

_"I get paid better."_

_"Touché."_

_And she smiles a little, rolling her eyes to herself. So she wouldn't be taking him up on early retirement, and now she knew SHIELD was far more aware of her than she first thought, but she doesn't regret it. He wasn't an Eleanor, not exactly, but he was worth saving._

_If, over the years, she occasionally ponders what it might be like to go straight, she doesn't let herself linger too long on the idea. And when she hears later that he's dead, she takes it as a sign from the universe that she was never meant to walk that path._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this was supposed to be the chapter where you see Darcy take on the first assassin, but it had to be moved to the next one when I fleshed out a few scenes between Darcy and Bucky. So, something to look forward to in the next one is some kickass Darcy! I hope you're enjoying the growth between these two, though. Some real conversation, sans alcohol, so that's nice. I'm curious if anyone guessed it was Coulson she'd been sent to kill and chose not to there at the end? Anybody pick up on that before the reveal?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please review; they're my lifeblood.
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Lee | Fina**


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